/ 2 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"7, 


IRA. 


C  A     IE  A. 


A    NOVEL. 


BY 

WM.    DUGAS    TKAMMELL. 


NEW   YORK: 
UNITED  STATES    PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

13  UNIVERSITY  PLACE. 
1874. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

WM.   DTJGAS  TRAMMELL, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


JOHN  F.  TROW  &  SON, 

PRINTERS  AND  BOOKBINDERS, 

205-213  East  i2/A  St. 

NEW  YORK. 


PS 


<fof  dedicate  this  Book  to  the 

WORKINGMEN, 

and  to  the  memory  of  all  who  have  ever  suffered 
in  their  Cause,  hoping  that  the  energies  of  the  liv 
ing,  and  the  inspiration  of  the  dead,  may  unite  to 
peacefully  accomplish  that  Great  Revolution  to 
which  all  Humanitarians  must  look  with  the  great 
est  concern, 

u 


THE  AUTHOR. 


March,  1874. 


1318620 


Book  1. 


PAGE. 

ELKTON...  9 


Book  2. 

DAUGHTER  AND  SON 71 

Book  3. 

ST.  ANTOINE f 187 

Book  4. 

PEACH-TREE'. 215 

Book  5. 

GLENCOE ..  307 


\. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"Thee  thy  handmaid  Necessity  ever  precedes." 

— HOEACE. 

The  beggars — Tiers-ctat — Tennis-Court — The  pikes — Tocsin — Alarm 
gun — Phrygian  cap — Forward  march — Robespierre — Level — 9a 
Ira  ! — And  has  the  world  got  so  far  ? — Doubtless — Even  to  £a 
Ira-  —But  it  was  not  done  in  a  day — Some  say  it  required  six 
thousand  years — Others,  as  many  millions — No  matter — It  re 
quired  a  long  time  to  get  there — So  it  may,  doubtless  will,  re 
quire  the  people  of  this  book  some  time  to  get  there — Nineteenth 
century  is  inquisitive — Must  know  the  whys  and  wherefores — 
Must  know  how  as  well  as  why  things  happen — Nor  is  this  a  bad 
thing  for  the  nineteenth  century ;  rather,  quite  a  good  thing- 
It  indicates  progress ;  that  the  nineteenth  century  wants  to  get 
more  knowledge  into  its  head — Have  not  the  Democrats  of  the 
State  of  Alabama  lately  made  a  law  to  tax  each  dog  twenty-five 
cents  for  school  purposes  ? — And  that  is  not  a  bad  thing  either, 
one  thinks — Alabama  will  not  rest  here — Believes  in  "march  of 
mind  "—Must  get  herself  educated,  at  all  costs ! — Has  it  ever  been 
said,  "  As  goes  Alabama,  so  goes  the  Union?  " — If  not,  let  it  be 
said  now  ;  at  least  as  concerns  progress  and  education — Mani 
festly,  among  such  a  people,  it  would  not  be  wise  to  omit  the 
whys  and  wherefores — Allons  ! 

MIRABEAU  HOLMES  was    captain  of  a  company.     It  was 
in  time  of  the  great  war  between  the  States,  in  which  the 

Southerners  lost  their  negroes  and  jewelry.     Mirabeau  was 
1* 


10  £A    IRA. 

not  captain  of  a  company  in  the  war,  but  of  a  company  of 
boys  at  the  old  country  school.  The  boys  wore  white  pants 
with  red  stripes,  and  they  were  armed  with  whistles — 
whistles  that  boys  make  in  spring-time  out  of  bits  of  chest 
nut  by  slipping  the  bark  off  when  the  sap  is  up — and  wooden 
pikes,  somewhat  like  the  pikes  afterwards  invented  by  the 
famous  war-governor  of  Georgia.  But  the  captain  wore  a 
genuine  dress-sword,  of  which  he  was  very  proud,  because  it 
came  from  a  revolutionary  ancestor.  Mirabeau  looked  as 
well  as  he  could,  for  Kate  Fletcher  was  there  among  the  girls 
looking  on,  delighted  with  the  drill.  He  was  in  love  with 
Kate,  a  pretty  girl,  some  years  older  than  himself. 

Mirabeau's  father,  Dr.  Holmes,  was  a  cotintry  physician, 
a  man  of  intelligence  and  much  reading.  In  spite  of  their 
pronounced  atheism,  he  could  not  help  admiring  the  great 
men  of  the  French  Revolution.  Mirabeau  he  hated  especially, 
because  he  was  not  only  an  atheist  but  a  sad  dog,  vastly  im 
moral,  always  given  up  to  debauchery,  running  away  with 
Sophie  de  Ruffey,  in  the  night,  to  Holland,  getting  himself 
into  Castles  of  Vincennes,  and  endless,  scrapes.  But  Dr. 
Holmes  had  a  passionate  admiration  for  great  orators.  La- 
martine  said  that  Mirabeau  was  the  greatest  of  modern  ora 
tors.  Cousin  affirmed  that  he  was  the  greatest  of  all  orators  ; 
and  so  thought  Dr.  Holmes.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  in 
spite  of  atheism,  Castles  of  Joux,  and  Sophie  de  Ruffey s,  the 
first-born  of  Dr.  Holmes  was  duly  sent  forth  upon  society 
with  so  big  a  name  as  Mirabeau. 

The  boy  was  baptized  at  home.  -L  have  heard  him  speak  of 
it  often  in  after  years.  He  said  he  was  quite  young,  just  able 
to  stand  alone.  His  father  had  fetched  a  "  big  preacher  "  a 
long  way  to  perform  the  important  ceremony.  He  said  he 
had  a  distinct  recollection  that  he  was  stripped  entirely  naked, 
stood  upon  top  of  the  dining-room  table,  and  then  the  pious 


ELKTON.  11 

man  blessed  him  and  poured  a  pitcher  full  of  cool  water — 
just  brought  from  the  spring  by  Harry — upon  his  head.  It 
was  on  a  hot  day  in  August,  "  And,"  added  he,  with  a  sigh, 
"  I  can  almost  feel  the  thrill  of  it  now,  as  it  trickled  over  my 
shoulders,  back,  and  belly,  even  down  to  my  heels,  in  a  per 
fect  network  of  streams,  settling  about,  here  and  there,  into 
ponds,  coves,  ports,  and  armlets."  But  this  was  long,  long 
afterwards.  He  would  not  have  spoken  so  irreverently  on 
that  day  we  have  seen  him  at  school  commanding  a  company 
of  boys  armed  with  whistles  and  "pikes."  These  two  inci 
dents — the  baptizing  and  commanding  the  company — in  the 
very  early  life  of  Mirabeau,  I  have  taken  as  representative. 
His  religion  was  put  upon  him  by  circumstances  over  which 
he  had  no  control.  His  intellect  and  his  ambition  were  his 
own.  No  matter  what  he  went  into,  he  was  sure  to  be  a 
leader.  If  he  joined  a  debating  society  at  school,  he  was 
made  chairman  ;  if  he  joined  a  drill  company,  he  was  elected 
captain.  If  there  was  an  honor  to  be  competed  for,  and  the 
school  was  divided,  he  was  sure  to  be  the  candidate  of  his 
party. 

Before  the  war  the  chief  occupations  of  our  young  men  in 
the  country  were  fast  reducing  themselves  to  this :  to  go  to 
camp-meetings,  barbecues,  associations,  the  "  springs,"  pro 
tracted  meetings,  and  to  "  ride  around."  As  to  what  might 
have  been  the  history  of  this  Mirabeau,  if  that  of  the  coun 
try  had  taken  a  different  course,  concerns  us  not  to  specu 
late  ;  but  the  probability  is  that,  in  spite  of  his  intellect,  in 
spite  of  his  ambition,  he  would  have  been  held  firmly  but 
unconsciously  down  by  that  atmosphere  of  do-nothingness  and 
know-nothingness  which  was  settling  like  a  pall  upon  the 
South.  But,  happily  for  Mirabeau  Holmes,  happily  for  his 
people,  and  thrice  happily  for  humanity,  this  pestilential  at 
mosphere — with  the  negroes  and  jewelry — was  swept  from 


12  gx  IRA. 

the  face  of  the  earth.  And  at  the  close  of  the  war  he  found 
himself,  though  without  money,  and  in  the  midst  of  ruin  and 
chaos,  young  and  strong  and  hopeful ;  a  very  king  in  the 
empire  of  his  own  mind,  and  glowing  with  ambition  to  ex 
tend  his  dominions. 

Some  years  after  we  have  seen  Mirabeau  captain  of  a  com 
pany,  if  you  had  been  standing  one  September  morning  on. 
the  Common  of  the  University,  by  the  terrace  just  in  front  of 
the  "Ivy  Building,"  you  might  have  heard  the  following 
conversation : 

"  Have  you  seen  this  new  man  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  saw  him  in  the  library  this  morning.  How  he 
got  up  there  though  is  the  question." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  Consider  his  legs." 

«  What  of  his  legs  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  winding  blades  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Have  you  heard  of  pipe-stems  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  His  legs  are  like  'em." 

"  But  what  do  you  know  of  him,  in  fact,  Fred  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  have  just  been  telling  you  what  I  know  of  certain 
systems  of  matter,  which,  according  to  Bishop  Butler,  he  is 
'  very  nearly  related  to  and  interested  in.'  " 

"  There  you  are  again.  But  come  now,  as  to  those  '  large 
masses  of  extraneous  or  adventitious  matter  distending  the 
several  parts  of  his  solid  body,' " 

"  Hold  there  !  '  Large  masses  ! '  Did  I  not  tell  you  they 
were  pipe-stems  ?  And  being  pipe-stems,  how  can  you  call 
them  large  masses  ?  " 

"  Take  a  cigar." 

"  Thank  you.    As  for  this  man,  seeing  that  his  legs,  accord- 


ELKTON.  13 

ing  to  Butler,  are  no  part  of  himself — and  truly  they  would 
be  a  very  small  part,  if  they  were  not  stretched  out  to  the 
crack  of  doom — he  came  up  to  see  Hall  last  night." 

"  What  does  Hall  know  of  him  ?  " 

"  Used  to  go  to  school  with  him  somewhere.  Says  he  is  a 
cat  of  a  fellow.  But  that's  like  Fullerton's  hog.  Do  you 
know  Captain  Pinter's  story  of  Fullerton's  hog  ?  " 

"  No.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know  old  Fullerton  that  lives  up  here  in  Cob- 
ham — the  grand-daddy  of  Charles  Augustus.  He  used  to 
live  in  one  of  the  eastern  counties.  He  was  poor  then  ;  and 
stole  a  hog.  He  came  here  and  got  to  be  mighty  rich.  He 
was  just  the  kind  of  a  man  for  the  Democrats  to  run  for  the 
Legislature  ;  so  they  put  him  up.  Now  the  other  candidate 
was  old  man  Pinter,  Captain  Pinter's  parent.  Fullevton 
thought  that  nobody  here  knew  of  the  hog-stealing — you  see 
it  was  not  kleptomania  then,  Fullerton  being  poor,  but  plain 
theft — or  if  anybody  did  know  of  it,  he  would  not  dare  to 
mention  it.  But  old  man  Pinter  knew  all  about  it,  and 
thought  he  would  fix  the  old  chap.  So  he  waited  till  the 
crowd  had  gathered  on  election-day,  and  then,  mounting  upon 
a  goods-box,  he  called  out :  '  Oh  yes  !  Oh  yes  !  Fullerton, 
back  where  he  came  from,  stole  a  hog ! '  Everybody  looked 
at  Fullerton.  He  was  not  fat  from  good  living  yet,  and  so 
he  jumped  upon  a  barrel,  and  called  out  in  turn  :  '  Oh  yes  ! 
Oh  yes  !  That's  a  long  time  ago.'  But  the  Democrats  sent 
him  to  the  Legislature  though." 

"  And  so  it's  been  '  a  long  time  ago  '  since  Hall  and  this 
man  were  in  school." 

"  /Si.      But  in  fact  Hall  says  he's  a  cat." 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  how  it  is  with  these  village  heroes : 
they  stand  at  the  head  of  the  class,  not  because  they  are 
sharper  than  others,  but  because  their  mothers  have  more 


14  gA  IRA. 

vanity  than  most  children's  mothers — which  is  saying  a  good 
deal.  The  village  hero's  mother  wants  to  see  him  stand  first 
at  the  'examination,'  so  she  bribes  him  to  study  just  enough 
to  get  there,  and  it  generally  takes  precious  little.  When  he 
comes  here,  where  he  finds  the  very  best  men  in  the  State,  and 
many  of  the  best  from  other  States,  what  has  he  to  distin 
guish  him  from  the  second  and  third  rate  men  ?  Nothing  but 
the  swell-head." 

"  And  what  has  he  to  distinguish  him  from  the  first-rate 
men  ?  Swell-head  will  not  answer  for  that." 

The  force  of  this  last  remark  will  be  observed  when  it  is 
understood  that  it  was  made  to  an  '  honor  man.'  The  '  honor 
man '  proceeded  to  the  library.  '  Fred '  was  Fred  Van 
Comer.  The  '  new  man  '  was  a  student  who  had  just  entered 
the  University ;  and  as  he  was  said  to  be  a '  cat  of  a  fellow  ; ' 
and  as  there  was  much  rivalry  among  the  '  secret  societies,' 
which  in  this  University  only  '  took  in '  the  '  best  men  ; ' 
and  as  he  came  out  of  the  regular  time,  he  naturally  attract 
ed  some  attention.  He  was  Mirabeau  Holmes. 

And  as  we  have  not  seen  him  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  only 
got  a  glimpse  of  him  then  ;  and  as  we  shall  have  much  to  say 
of  him  hereafter — that  is,  unless  he  dies,  marries,  gets  himself 
into  the  State  prison,  or  Noodledom — it  may  be  well  enough 
to  take  his  picture  now.  He  wore  a  pair  of  pants  thirty-six 
in  the  leg  and  twenty-eight  in  the  waist.  In  other  words,  he 
was  six  feet  two,  and  his  legs  entirely  too  small  to  think  of 
tights.  Fred  Van  Comer  was  wrong  to  speak  of  his  legs,  as 
the  politicians  say,  in  connection  with  winding  blades.  Still 
he  was  slightly  gangling.  But  as  for  this  gangling  business, 
I  suppose  he  thought  of  it  pretty  much  as  Captain  Pinter 
thought  of  his  turned-up  nose  :  Captain  Pinter's  nose  turned 
up  'just  about  as  much  as  a  gentleman's  nose  ought  to  turn 
up.'  He  had  black  hair,  a  long,  angular,  nervous  face,  un- 


ELKTON.  1 5 

certain  chin,  and  cold,  gray  eye.  It  may  as  well  be  stated 
here,  for  the  benefit  of  all  who  at  this  moment  are  mentally 
making  comparisons,  and  trying  if  they  cannot  find  something 
in  themselves  more  remarkable  than  anything  in  this  Mira- 
beau,  that  there  was  nothing  very  striking  about  his  appear 
ance  at  all.  He  was  not  one  of  those  men,  who,  as  novelists 
tell  us,  seem  in  nothing  remarkable  at  first  sight,  but  who,  if 
you  look  at  them  the  second  time,  and  closely,  gradually  im 
press  you  as  being  somewhat  out  of  the  ordinary  way,  some 
thing  strange,  rather  fascinating,  not  to  say  positively  won 
derful.  I  rather  think  you  might  have  looked  into  this  man's 
face  several  times  without  discovering  anything  greatly  won 
derful.  Maybe  the  reader  expects  to  hear  that  he  at  least  had 
"  an  enormous  head  " — possibly  so  large  and  so  irregularly 
shaped  that  he  never  thought  of  finding  a  hat  to  fit  it  in  an 
ordinary  store ;  but  always  had  to  have  them  made  to  order 
by  Messrs.  Blinkum,  Slick  &  Co.,  New  York.  Nothing  of 
the  sort ;  he  wore  a  number  seven.  But  his  head  was  all 
forehead — like  Plato's  and  Ben  Hill's.  For  the  rest,  he  held 
himself  as  erect  as  Jeff  Davis ;  and  there  was  a  very  percep 
tible  dash  of  scorn  in  his  face.  When  he  saw  another  do  any 
work  he  was  a  shade  disappointed,  especially  when  he  had 
expected  something  particularly  good ;  when  he  heard  another 
speak  he  thought  he  could  have  done  it  better.  He  had  a 
comfortable  opinion  of  himself ;  even  thought  himself  good- 
looking,  which  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,  seeing  that  he 
was  very  far  from  good-looking.  But  he  also  had  a  good 
opinion  of  his  intellectual  qualifications,  which  is  rather  to  be 
wondered  at ;  for  in  this  he  was,  in  truth,  not  wide  of  the 
mark. 

When  Mirabeau  met  in  the  library  the  venerable  Chancel 
lor  of  the  University,  he  recognized  at  once  his  ideal  of  a 
man.  His  long  silvery  hair,  his  noble  head,  his  large,  dark 


16  gA  IB  A. 

eyes  beaming  with  the  subdued  fire  of  eloquence  and  poetry, 
his  thoughtful  and  reverent  brow,  his  whole  face  lit  up  with 
the  largest  and  rarest  human  sympathy, — in  all  this  Mira- 
beau  thought  he  saw  the  stamp  of  the  loftiest  character. 
And  Mirabeau  was  not  at  all  mistaken.  The  venerable  Chan 
cellor  was  a  man  of  the  broadest  and  most  catholic  culture, 
of  liberal  opinions,  and  boundless  benevolence.  But  what 
do  words  signify  ?  Scattered  over  this  broad  land  there  are 
many  young  men,  and  this  book  will  come  into  their  hands, 
aided  in  their  first  struggles  in  life's  battle  by  this  noble 
man,  who  are  already  pressing  forward  to  wield  the  energies 
and  mould  the  civilization  of  our  people,  who  can  testify 
that  the  "  old  doctor's  "  benevolence  was  not  an  empty  sen 
timent.  He  was  a  man  of  the  most  exalted  piety  and  an 
universal  sympathy :  his  sympathy  knew  no  limit  whatever ; 
from  the  tiniest  flower  to  the  towering  Alps,  from  the  lowest 
child  of  darkness  to  the  highest  seraph  of  light ;  in  all  things, 
like  the  Psalmist,  whom  he  loved,  he  saw  reflected  the  image 
of  the  Creator.  The  "  old  doctor  "  at  once  took  the  student 
by  the  hand,  called  him  "  my  son,"  and  exhibited  such  an 
interest  in  him  as  made  this  man  his  fast  friend  forever 
after. 

"  I  have  always  loved  to  know,"  says  M.  Lamartine,  "  the 
home  and  the  domestic  circumstances  of  those  with  whom  I 
have  had  anything  to  do  in  the  world.  It  is  a  part  of  them 
selves — it  is  a  second  external  physiognomy,  which  gives 
the  key  to  their  disposition  and  their  destiny."  Mirabeau 
Holmes  was  a  religious  man ;  I  may  say  even  deeply  reli 
gious.  Not  that  he  had  ever  passed  through  that  great  con 
flict  between  Reason  and  Belief  which  every  deep  and  skep 
tical  mind — and  all  deep  minds  are  skeptical — must,  at  some 
time  or  other,  pass  through.  But  he  was  religious  because 
his  parents  were  pious  people,  and  got  him  baptized  in  time. 


ELKTON.  17 

Moreover,  before  he  was  thirteen  he  had  read  the  whole  of 
the  six  enormous  volumes  of  Clarke's  "  Commentary."  No 
wonder  he  never  doubted  any  portion  of  Scripture — it  was 
all  made  so  plain  to  him.  Then,  again,  his  father  died  about 
this  time;  his  father,  whom  he  had  greatly  loved.  Indeed, 
everybody  loved  the  good,  always  gentle,  always  sympathetic 
Dr.  Holmes.  Especially  was  he  beloved  by  the  poor  people, 
and  by  the  slaves  upon  the  neighboring  plantations,  whom 
he  attended  in  their  sickness.  And  I  lay  this  down  here  as 
the  best  test  of  gentleness  and  generosity  of  character :  To 
be  beloved  by  your  inferiors.  Would  you,  sir,  forfeit  the 
love  of  your  faithful  dog  for  the  good-will  of  an  emperor  ? 
You  would  ?  "  Oh  that  the  sexton  were  here  to  write  you 
down — an  ass."  Pass  on — to  the  Penitentiary.  Dr.  Holmes 
and  Elizabeth  Barclay  had  married  quite  young,  as  was  then 
the  custom ;  and  until  the  Dr.'s  death  had  never  been  less 
than  lovers,  which  was  not  then  the  custom.  They  had  three 
children,  two  of  whom  died  in  infancy,  leaving  only  Mira- 
beau.  Dr.  Holmes  was  buried,  according  to  his  own  request, 
in  the  burying-ground  of  his  own  church,  "  Olivet ; "  and 
every  morning  you  might  see  upon  his  grave  a  wreath  of 
rare  flowers.  For  the  mistress  of  "  Ashton  "  had  the  most 
beautiful  flower  gardens  in  all  the  country,  and  she  loved 
them  now  more  than  ever.  On  summer  evenings,  when 
Mirabeau  was  a  boy,  and  when  he  would  be  at  home  on 
"  vacation,"  she  would  take  him  by  the  hand  and  walk  across 
the  fields  to  "  Olivet."  Many  years  afterwards,  when  his 
dear  mother  was  sleeping  happily  in  the  little  churchyard, 
by  the  good  Doctor's  side  ;  when  storms  had  swept  over  the 
land,  and  others  were  threatening ;  when  "  Ashton "  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  and  not  a  vestige  was  left 
of  the  beautiful  gardens ;  when  he  himself  had  passed  through 
more  than  one  of  the  crises  of  life,  he  sometimes  looked  back 


18  gA  IKA. 

to  these  walks  across  the  fields  with  his  mother.  Who  shall 
say  how  much  they  had  to  do  in  the  shaping  of  this  man's 
life-history  ? 

And  this  is  a  most  important  fact  in  the  life  of  this  man : 
not  that  he  believed  in  a  particular  church,  or  even  a  parti 
cular  religion,  for  that  is  a  matter  of  but  little  consequence, 
but  that  his  religious  feelings  were  deep.  Had  he  been  con 
ventionally  religious,  the  probability  is  that  he  would  have 
lived  and  died  a  conventional  man,  rising,  perhaps,  to  that 
"mediocrity  of  respectability,"  which,  according  to  the  prince 
of  modern  philosophers,  "  is  becoming  a  marked  characteris 
tic  of  modern  times."  He  believed  in  the  Christian  religion 
because  he  had  been  so  taught. 

Mirabeau  Holmes  was  a  representative  man  of  the  most 
intellectual  and  best-educated  class  of  young  men  of  the 
"New  South,"  and  as  such  I  shall  trace  his  history.  Of 
what  impression,  if  any,  he  made  upon  the  world,  or  even  a 
small  portion  of  the  world;  of  the  stand-point  from  which  he, 
at  different  periods,  regarded  Humanity,  what  he  considered 
his  relations  thereto,  and  the  consequent  resolves  as  to  how 
he  should  conduct  himself  so  as  not  only  to  pay  in  full  Hu 
manity's  account  against  him,  but  to  leavg  a  large  balance  in 
his  favor ;  of  what  he  resolved  to  do,  and,  which  is  of  far 
more  importance,  of  what  he  did,  and  how:  on  the  other 
hand,  of  what  effect  the  world  had  upon  himself;  of  how  his 
resolves,  his  aspirings,  and  his  work,  were  in  any  manner 
modified  by  the  atmosphere  of  that  portion  of  the  world  im 
mediately  around  him,  with  its  conflict  of  old  and  new  ideas, 
prejudices,  stupidities,  reforms  longed  for  and  worked  for  by 
the  few,  and  bigoted  "  conservatisms,"  ignorantly,  blindly 
clung  to  by  the  many ;  in  a  word,  of  what  this  man  did  in 
the  world,  and  what  the  world  did  in  him,  we  shall  see  some 
what  in  the  course  of  this  history. 


ELKTON.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Yond'  Cassius  has  a  lean  and  hungry  look. 

Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort, 
As  if  he  mock'd  himself,  and  scorn'd  his  spirit 
That  could  be  mov'd  to  smile  at  anything." 

— Julius  Caesar. 

IK  the  city  of  Nashville,  in  a  room  of  the  Capitol,  one 
night  in  the  year  186-,  was  held  a  convention  of  young  men. 
As  you  entered  the  room  and  glanced  around,  you  perceived 
that  here  were  men  from  different  parts  of  the  country. 
Here  was  the  polished,  aristocratic  Virginian ;  the  well- 
made,  healthy-looking,  brusque  Kentuckian;  the  nervous, 
fiery  South  Carolinian;  the  intellectual,  energetic,  wide 
awake  Georgian;  the  sallow,  silent  Floridian;  the  self- as 
serting  Texan — in  short,  men  from  every  Southern  State 
were  here.  But  different  in  everything  else,  all  were  alike 
in  this,  that  they  seemed  earnest  and  thoughtful.  These 
men  were  not  only  representative  of  the  people  of  the  differ 
ent  States — they  were  representative  of  the  highest  educated 
thought  and  feeling  of  the  South.  This  was  a  convention  of 
a  college  "  secret  society,"  the  largest  and  most  powerful 
in  the  South ;  indeed,  it  was  the  largest  and  oldest  in  the 
United  States ;  but  the  Northern  and  Southern  wings,  sepa 
rated  by  the  war,  had  not  resumed  friendly  relations.  No 
one  could  be  a  member  unless  he  was  distinguished  for 
scholarship  or  oratory,  and  social  excellence.  It  was  made 
up  of  the  best  material ;  of  men  likely  to  wield  a  large  influ 
ence,  not  only  in  colleges  and  universities,  but  in  the  general 
civilization  of  the  country.  In  this  convention  every  college 


20  gA  TEA. 

and  university  of  any  importance  in  the  South  was  repre 
sented,  and  ably  represented. 

Mirabeau  Holmes  was  chairman  of  the  convention.  This 
was  the  second  night  of  the  convention.  One  of  the  members 
rose,  approached  the  rostrum,  and  whispered  something  in 
the  president's  ear.  The  president  handed  him  a  slip  of 
paper ;  and  when  he  returned  to  his  place  he  said  :  "  Mr. 
President,  I  propose  the  following  amendments  to  the  Con 
stitution  :  1st.  The  separation  of  the  Southern  from  the 
Northern  wing  of  the  society  shall  be  final ;  and  no  chapter 
shall  ever  be  established  north  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line. 
2dly.  It  shall  be  the  sacred  and  paramount  duty  of  this  so 
ciety,  and  of  every  member  of  it,  to  oppose,  by  all  possible 
means  and  measures,  the  Federal  Government;  looking  al 
ways  to  the  reasserting  of  the  independence  of  the  Confede 
rate  States."  And  this  wild  scheme  was  born  of  the  brain  of 
Mirabeau  Holmes ;  he  was  its  father  and  champion.  Here 
was  a  very  great  change  ;  for  the  "  objects  of  the  society,"  here 
tofore,  had  been  solely  to  cultivate  the  intellectual  and  social 
qualities  of  its  members.  It  was  here  proposed,  by  a  sweep 
of  the  pen,  to  change  the  society  from  this  to  a  secret  political 
revolutionary  power.  Some  thought  of  the  "  Mary  Anne," 
some  of  Danton,  Robespierre,  the  clubs  of  Paris,  and  seemed 
to  hear  the  "  Ca  Ira  "  of  those  terrible  revolutionary  times. 
The  member  had  taken  his  seat.  According  to  the  arrange 
ment,  the  president  was  to  have  called  some  member  to  the 
chair,  and  made  a  speech  in  favor  of  the  amendments.  But 
seeing  no  signs  of  opposition,  he-put  the  questions  promptly, 
and  both  were  carried  unanimously.  And  thus  by  a  small 
body  of  young  men — the  oldest  not  over  thirty,  the  youngest 
probably  under  twenty,  who  had  met  quietly  in  this  city  of 
Nashville,  unheralded,  save  by  a  short  notice  in  the  daily 
papers — was  passed  a  measure  of  more  significance,  destined 


ELKTON.  21 

to  have  a  greater  effect  upon  the  thought,  feeling,  and  action 
of  the  country,  than  any  number  of  pompous  acts  of  the  Con 
gress  of  the  United  States.  It  might  be  that  on  this  very 
day  it  was  enacted  by  the  Congress  of  the  United  States  of 
America  "  that  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  be  appropri 
ated  for  the  improvement  of  the  harbor  at  Savannah,  in 
the  State  of  Georgia ; "  or  "  four  millions  and  five  hundred 
thousand  dojjars  for  the  erection  of  Government  buildings 
at  Duluth — such  as  should  be  worthy  of  that  metropolis,  and 
commensurate  with  the  dignity  of  the  United  States  and  the 
financial  aspirations  of  the  stockholders  of  the  Northern 
Pacific  Railroad."  And  if  so,  possibly  at  this  very  hour  a 
thousand  wires  were  spreading  the  important  news  through 
every  state'  and  city  on  the  continent ;  and  old  Ocean  himself 
kept  respectful  silence  for  a  moment  while  the  great  words, 
Congress  of  the  United  States,  flashed  along  the  cable.  And 
next  morning  ten  thousand  newspapers,  some  of  them  in  bar 
barous  and  guttural  type,  repeated  the  wondrous  tale.  But 
this  measure  of  which  I  am  speaking  was  not  telegraphed  to 
any  kingdoms,  principalities,  or  newspapers ;  to  certain  pow 
ers,  however,  it  was  mentioned,  though  in  a  very  quiet  way. 
Late  in  the  night  two  of  the  members  walked  to  the  telegraph 
office,  and  sent  the  following  message  to  every  chapter  in  the 
society  :  "  Rejoice  !  The  great  measure  passed  unanimously." 
Almost  simultaneously  this  message  was  received  by  a  small 
knot  of  the  most  influential  men  in  every  college  and  univer 
sity  Soxith.  And  they  all  rejoiced.  Acts  of  Congress,  law 
yers'  parchments,  indeed.  Bah ! 

"  Strange  they  don't  come  on.     It's  almost  ten  o'clock." 
"  I  reckon  they'll   come.     The  secretary    counts  on  'em  ; 
and  you  know  he  don't  make  wrong  calculations.     He  says 
the  main  man  among  them  will  be  sure  to  be  here ;  but  he 
don't  look  for  them  before  ten." 


22  £A   LEA. 

"  I  reckon  there  must  be  some  understanding,  else  the  cap 
tain  would  have  reported  before  now." 

"  Curious  man,  the  secretary  is.  I  wish  I  knew  all  about 
his  life.  Never  sleeps  with  anybody ;  won't  even  sleep  with 
anybody  in  the  room  with  him.  The  other  night  at  Jackson 
the  hotel  was  crowded — some  railroad  meeting  there.  They 
had  to  put  him  and  old  '  Cassius  '  and  me  all  in  one  room.  He 
stayed  up  all  night.  He  told  us  he  had  a  goodijleal  of  writ 
ing  to  do,  and  if  he  got  through  he  would  come  TO  bed.  But 
he  didn't  come." 

"  What  did  old  '  Cassius,'  as  they  call  him,  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  He's  about  as  strange  a  one  as  the  other. 
Never  has  anything  to  say.  Does  anybody  know  anything 
about  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't.  What  do  they  call  him  «  Cassius  '  for  ?  They 
say  that's  not  his  name." 

"  You  are  a  pluperfect  heathen,  you  are.  Where's  your 
Shakespeare  ?  They  call  him  '  Cassius,'  because  he's  so  lean 
and  hungry-looking.  And,  hang  me,  if  he  don't  look  like  he 
could  eat  apunkin  through  the  crack  of  a  lawful  fence.  I 
wish  I  knew  all  about  both  of  them." 

"  For  the  secretary,  no  matter  about  his  life.  He  knows 
everything ;  all  our  men  believe  in  him ;  he's  the  very  man 
for  us.  And  I  tell  you,  they  call  him  the  secretary,  but  it's 
my  opinion  that  he's  running  this  machine." 

"  You  are  right  there,  else,  as  old  Veller  says,  you  are  one 
Dutchman,  and  I'm  another;  that's  all." 

"  Where  is  General  Cyclops  ?  "" 

"  In  Tennessee." 

"  Ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  Once." 

"At  a  meeting?" 

"  No." 


ELKTON.  23 

"  Well,  it  don't  matter.  I  reckon  Arnot  knows  about  as 
much  what  to  do  as  Cyclops  does.  Look  at  his  face — the 
devil  couldn't  tell  what  he's  thinking  about." 

"  If  he  was  to  hear  a  toot  of  Gabriel's  horn  right  now,  you 
couldn't  tell  any  more  from  his  face  than  if  it  was  a  piece  of 
white  putty." 

"  He  seems  to  know  all  about  this  fellow  that's  coming 
here  to-night." 

11  And,  by  the  way,  I've  been  thinking  about  it,  and  I  tell 
you  this  is  the  biggest  kind  of  a  thing  we  are  getting  into. 
You  fellows  had  no  idea  of  its  getting  to  be  such  a  huge  con 
cern  when  you  started  it  up  there  in  Tennessee." 

"No,  sir." 

"  I  wish  they  would  come  on.  Cassius  over  there  seems 
to  be  getting  restless." 

The  individual  spoken  of  got  up,  and  came  across  the 
room  to  where  the  two  speakers  were. 

"  What  time  ?  Ten  ?  Arnot's  just  got  some  news  from 
your  State,"  said  he,  addressing  one  of  the  speakers,  who 
•was  from  South  Carolina.  "  Rapid  times — Savannah  river 
lively ;  your  people  want  a  meeting  called  over  there  right 
away.  Some  rough  work  '11  have  to  be  done,  I  guess."  And 
the  lean  and  hungry-looking  Cassius  moved  on.  This  was 
more  than  he  had  ever  been  known  to  say  before  at  one 
time. 

Some  telegraphic  knocks  were  heard  at  the  door.  Almost 
instantly  all  the  lights  in  the  hall  were  lowered ;  and  the 
door-keeper,  after  a  short  colloquy  with  the  operator  outside, 
half  opened  the  door.  Two  men  entered,  locked  arms.  One 
of  them,  a  small,  dark  man,  who  would  be  taken  for  a  Creole ; 
the  other,  our  friend,  the  chairman  of  the  Nashville  Conven 
tion.  The  two  men  proceeded  to  the  opposite  end  of  the 
hall,  and  Mirabeau  had  time  to  look  around  him.  The  hall 


24  A   IKA. 

was  long,  narrow,  and  low,  with  a  row  of  seats  on  each  side, 
and  with  something  like  a  speaker's  stand  at  the  furthest 
end.  In  an  uninhabited  old  street  of  the  great  city,  silence 
without,  silence  within,  save  the  measured  foot-falls  of  the 
two  men  as  they  proceeded  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the 
hall  ;  all  the  lamps  turned  down  to  a  graveyard  twilight,  save 
that  on  the  table  in  front  of  the  chairman,  which,  suddenly 
elevated,  threw  a  defiant  glare  upon  the  bare  walls  ;  all  com 
bined  to  add  to  the  deep,  silent  sombreness  of  the  place. 
Here  were  about  a  score  of  men.  But  Mirabeau,  after  the 
first  moment,  scarcely  looked  to  the  right  or  left,  his  attention 
being  caught  and  held  by  the  person  they  were  approaching. 
It  was  a  face  calculated  to  arrest  the  attention,  especially  as 
it  was  now  glared  upon  by  the  single  light,  which  seemed 
half  surprised  at  the  intrusion  of  the  stranger.  The  small 
dark  man,  when  they  met  the  chairman,  who  had  risen  and 
advanced  a  few  paces  towards  them,  simply  bowed,  without 
saying  a  word,  and  went  to  a  seat.  The  chairman  introduced 
himself  as  "  James  Arnot,"  of  South  Carolina,  and  when  he 
shook  Mirabeau's  hand,  the  latter  started  in  surprise,  but  in 
stantly  recovered  himself. 
""Ecr/xev"  - 


Where  have  we  met  ?  " 

"  In  the  Temple." 

These  enigmatical  expressions  passed  between  them  in  a 
low  voice,  and  quickly.  And  then  they  seated  themselves. 

"  I  knew  of  the  meeting  in  NaShville,"  said  Arnot  ;  "  knew 
what  you  intended  to  do  there.  I  wanted  to  be  with  you  ; 
but  looking  to  the  work  before  us  to-night,  I  concluded  it 
best  for  me  not  to  be  there.  You  can  readily  see  that  it  will 
not  do  for  our  men  to  know  that  I  am  a  member  of  the 
society.  Seeing  that  very  few  of  them  could  become  mem* 


KLKTON.  25 

bers,  for  tliem  to  know  that  some  of  us  were,  might  create 
jealousy,  insubordination,  and  lead  to  the  ruin  of  every 
thing." 

During  this  speech  Mirabeau  had  a  moment  for  observa 
tion.  He  saw  that  his  new  acquaintance  was  almost  as 
youthful  as  himself,  certainly  under  thirty,  of  small  figure, 
and  features  almost  as  delicate  as  a  woman ;  of  pale'  face,  and 
rich  black  hair,  which  was  combed  back  without  parting; 
the  face  was  immobile,  and,  in  spite  of  the  intellectual  brow 
and  deep  eye,  seemed  utterly  expressionless.  But  it  did  not 
require  an  acute  physiognomist  to  tell  that  these  features 
were  immobile  not  from  any  lack  of  activity  of  intellect  and 
feeling,  but  from  the  most  perfect  and  absolute  self-control. 
It  might  be  that  this  man  had  given  years  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  this  purpose,  that  his  features  should  never  be  sur 
prised  or  provoked  in  any  way  to  give  the  slightest  clue  to 
what  was  passing  within.  When  he  had  finished,  Mirabeau 
replied : 

"  I  agree  with  you  perfectly." 

"  And  so  I  telegraphed  you  to  get  the  convention  to  send 
one  or  more  members  here  to  consult  with  our  people  if  some 
agreement  could  not  be  entered  into  which  might  be  service 
able  to  both  of  us." 

"  Our  people  "  was  the  "  K.  K.  K.,"  and  this  was  a  meeting 
of  some  of  their  chiefs.  When  Mirabeau  had  been  intro 
duced  to  all  present,  Arnot  explained  to  them  what  was  pro 
posed  to  be  done,  and  suggested  that  one  or  more  members 
be  appointed  to  confer  with  Mr.  Holmes,  and  report  to  the 
meeting  on  the  following  night ;  meanwhDe  he  hoped  not  one 
of  them  would  leave  the  city.  Arnot  knew  well  enough  that 
it  would  be  the  wish  of  all  that  he  himself  should  undertake 
this  business  with  Mirabeau  Holmes. 

When  the  meeting  broke  up  they  went  to  their  hotel— 
2 


26  gA  IEA. 

these  two  men — conspirators,  if  you  will — and  talked  long  of 
the  business  that  had  brought  them  together.  Mirabeau  had 
heard  a  good  deal  of  late  of  a  certain  secret  organization 
known  by  the  mystical  title  of  "  Klu  Klux  Klan."  The 
papers  of  the  North  were  full  of  accounts  of  their  horrible 
doings.  It  was  charged  that  this  was  an  extensive  organisa 
tion  ;  that  a  large  number  of  the  most  prominent  Confederate 
chiefs  belonged  to  it ;  that  it  was  purely  political ;  that  its 
object  was  the  destruction  of  the  Union;  finally,  that  every 
member  took  a  most  solemn  oath  never  to  scruple  at  anything, 
however  criminal,  that  would  forward  the  interest  of  the 
Klan,  or  of  the  party  whose  servant  the  Klan  was ;  all  obsta 
cles  must  be  removed  without  counting  the  cost ;  in  a  word, 
that  they  looked  to  the  end,  not  to  the  means,  and  pursued  it 
with  the  disciplined  zeal  of  a  Jesuit.  They  charged  that  it 
was  dangerous  for  a  Northern  man  to  go  South.  (And  as  for 
this,  there  is  abundant  evidence  that  it  was  dangerous  enough 
— to  the  State  treasuries.)  It  was  said  that  the  highways 
were  nightly  traversed  by  armed  bands,  moving  noiselessly 
about,  dressed  in  long  black  gowns,  their  faces  fantastically 
painted,  and  carrying  crosses,  miniature  coffins,  curiously 
worked  banners,  skull-bones,  and  other  things  symbolical  of 
their  business.  All  of  which  was  indignantly  denied  by  the 
Southern  papers ;  and  they  retorted  too — with  more  reason — 
that  the  Southern  people,  though  hounded,  persecuted,  and 
oppressed  with  an  energy  of  vindictive  malice  sufficient 
among  any  people  less  loyal  to  raise  the  stones  to  mutiny, 
were  the  most  peaceable,  law-abiding,  and  long-suffering  people 
in  the  universe.  Still  Mirabeau  had  regarded  the  whole  mat 
ter  as  little  more  than  newspaper  warfare,  gotten  up  for  po 
litical  party  purposes.  Nothing,  therefore,  could  have  been 
more  genuine  than  his  surprise  when  the  whole  scheme  was 
unfolded  to  him. 


ELKTON.  27 

"  The  Klan,"  said  Arnot,  "  originated  in  Tennessee,  and  its 
object  was  to  protect  the  people  against  old  Brownlow.  But 
it  was  soon  found  that  our  people  in  every  State  were  al 
most  in  as  much  need  of  protection  as  the  people  of  Tennes 
see." 

"  And  does  your  object  still  extend  no  further  than 
that  ?  " 

"  That  is  understood  to  be  our  object ;  still  there  are  a 
few  of  us  who  look  a  great  deal  further — to  independence !  " 

"  In  that  I  will  be  with  you.  But  you  say  some  of  you 
look  to  this ;  is  there  not  danger,  then,  of  disagreement 
among  yourselves  ?  " 

"  We  are  too  well  organized  for  that.  Officers  and  men 
are  sworn  to  obey  the  orders  of  their  superiors  without 
question.  We  have  a  General  Council  which  meets  once  a 
year  in  the  capital  of  your  own  State.  Theoretically  this 
Council  is  supreme ;  but  practically  all  power  is  in  the  hands 
of  a  very  few  men — I  may  almost  say  one  person." 

Mirabeau  found  that,  nominally,  the  supreme  chief  of  the 
Klan  was  a  .distinguished  general ;  and  that  Arnot  was, 
nominally,  only  secretary.  But  he  had  soon  seen  enough  to 
convince  him  that,  however  it  might  be  nominally,  the  real 
power  was  in  the  hands  of  the  calm,  intensely  pale-faced  in 
dividual  before  him.  Mirabeau  was  shown  letters  and  des 
patches  from  many  leading  generals  and  politicians.  Arnot 
was  an  individual  who  seemed  to  know  precisely  what  to 
say,  and  when.  And  so  here,  the  moment  Mirabeau  seemed 
to  miss  something,  he  remarked : 

"  I  suppose  you  are  looking  for  something  from  our  bravo 
old  chief;  that  is  the  only  thing  we  have  ever  failed  in. 
We  know  his  heart  is  with  us ;  for  he  has  frequently  said 
that  <  the  principles  for  which  we  contended  will  reassert 
themselves,  though  it  may  be  in  a  different  form,  and  at  a 


28  £A   TEA. 

different  time.'  And  I  suppose  that  for  this  very  reason, 
probably,  he  has  not  consented  to  join  us.  We  mean  to 
make  another  effort  to  get  him,  and  think  we  have  hit  upon 
a  plan  that  will  succeed." 

And  thus  these  two  conspirators,  having  authority,  that 
night,  in  the  name  and  on  the  part  of  their  respective  organ 
izations,  entered  into  a  firm  alliance  for  the  accomplishment 
of  a  certain  definite  object  of  the  greatest  significance. 
Here,  then,  was  a  combination  between  the  men  of  thought 
and  the  men  of  action ;  always  a  most  powerful  combination, 
and  here  a  most  dangerous. 

It  was  nearly  morning  when  the  conference  between  these 
two  persons  broke  up.  Mirabeau  was  much  interested  in 
James  Arnot.  He,  too,  would  have  liked  to  know  his  history. 
But  Arnot  let  no  word  drop  likely  to  give  any  idea  at  all  of 
his  life.  When  they  went  down  from  Arnot's  room,  Mira 
beau  asked  him  to  take  a  glass  of  wine.  "  He  never  took  any 
thing."  Wouldn't  he  take  a  cigar ?  "He  never  smoked." 

The  next  day,  and  the  day  after,  as  Mirabeau  rode  over  the 
splendid  fields  of  Louisiana  and  Mississippi,  the  coal  regions 
of  Alabama,  and  the  magnificent  scenery  of  North  Alabama 
and  Georgia,  he  reflected  upon  what  a  grand  country  we 
should  have  when  free  of  the  Puritan  Yankees  !  We  should 
not  want  any  written  constitution  then ;  no  "  checks  and  bal 
ances  ;  "  our  interests  would  be  identical ;  in  thought,  feeling, 
education,  sympathy,  purpose,  blood — our  people  should  be 
one ;  then  there  could  be  a  real,  not  a  bungling,  mechanical 
Union,  as  we  now  have  ! 


ELKTON.  29 


CHAPTER  III. 

Where  Yonah  lifts  his  bald  and  reverend  head 

The  humbler  Alleghany  peaks  above, 
Beneath  its  shadows  pleasantly  is  spread 

Nacooche's  vale  —  sweet  as  a  dream  of  love." 

'  Tis  a  valley  of  peace,  rich  in  every  soft  feature, 
In  sunshine  or  shade,  in  its  own  verdant  green, 

'  Tis  Georgia's  Egcria,  most  lovely  by  nature, 
Carved  out  of  a  chaos  of  wild  mountain  scene." 

B.  JACKSON. 


"  WE  are  going  to  have  a  friend  of  mine  with  us  to-night, 
Marian  ;  guess  who  ?  " 

"  A  friend  of  yours  —  can  anything  be  more  indefinite  than 
that  ?  " 

"  More  indefinite  than  that  Mend  ?  Nothing  that  I  know 
of." 

"  See,  now,  how  you  are  caught  !  If  you  don't  tell  me 
without  guessing,  I  mean  to  tell  him  what  you  said  about 
him." 

"  A  college  chum.  You  might  know  now,  by  just  a  slight 
reference  to  that  wonderful  process  of  '  putting  two  and  two 
together.'  " 

"  A  most  indefinite  college  friend  —  it  must  be  Fred  Van 
Comer." 

"  A  decimal  fraction  to  a  theory  in  metaphysics  !  But 
you  will  be  glad  to  see  him  —  Mirabeau  Holmes." 

"  Mirabeau  Holmes  !  I  am  glad  he  is  coming.  You  have 
told  me  so  much  about  him.  But  I  never  heard  you  say  be 
fore  that  he  was  the  most  indefinite  of  men." 

"  I  will  not  insist  on  it,  then,  but  leave  you  to  judge." 


30  CA   IRA. 

I 

"  Where  did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  In  town,  yesterday.  He  had  either  been,  or  was  going, 
to  the  Falls.  I  would  have  brought  him  with  me  last  night, 
but  he  had  some  business  there  with  a  friend  of  his  who 
would  not  come.  I  wish  I  could  have  got  him  to  come.  He 
made  me  think  of  a  grown-up  page  in  some  old  play.  You 
know  Sophie  Montcalm  ?  Well,  this  man  is  just  like  her." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  Arnot." 

"  A  pretty  name.  And  he  must  be  good-looking  himself 
if  he  is  like  Sophie  Montcalm." 

"  So  he  is ;  but  here  comes  Pompey  with  my  horse. 
Holmes  is  going  to  stay  with  us  to-morrow.  I  am  going  to 
ride  a  little  way  to  meet  him." 

Mirabeau  was  delighted  with  the  unceremonious,  cordial 
manner  of  his  reception  by  the  ladies  at  "  Elkton."  And 
when  Mrs.  Malcomb  remarked  that  they  had  heard  Robert 
and  his  friend  Henry  Broughton  speak  of  him  so  often  that 
they  had  almost  come  to  i^egard  him  as  a  friend  of  the  fam 
ily  before  they  had  ever  seen  him,  that  young  gentleman  im 
mediately  felt  comfortable.  Mr.  Malcomb  soon  came  and 
joined  the  party  on  the  veranda.  And  there,  for  awhile, 
we  shall  leave  them  to  interest  themselves  as  best  they  may. 
Meanwhile,  I  shall  proceed  to  talk  about  Mr.  Malcomb, 
hoping  to  make  him  at  least  as  well  known  to  the  reader  as 
he  was  to  many  who  had  voted  for  him  to  fill  the  highest 
offices. 

Mr.  Malcomb  could  smile  from  -ear  to  ear  without  a  mo 
ment's  notice.  He  had  been  for  many  years  an  eminent 
lawyer  and  political  leader.  Before  the  great  war — in  which 
the  people  of  New  Orleans  lost  their  silver  spoons — he  had 
been  a  politician.  After  said  war  he  had  risen  to  the  dig 
nity  of  statesman.  He  was  also  now  deeply  engaged  in  the 


ELKTON.  31 

profession  of  money-getting.  He  was  not  an  aristocrat — in 
truth  there  were  not  half  so  many  aristocrats  in  this  part 
of  the  world  as  some  people  seem  to  imagine.  Mr.  Malcomb 
was  the  representative  native  Southern  statesman  of  the  new 
order  of  things.  He  wore  rusty  alpaca  pants,  a  black  coat 
that  reached  to  his  heels,  and  upon  his  head  he  carried, 
slightly  pitched  forward,  the  tallest  and  roundest  beaver-hat 
in  this  or  any  other  State,  with  the  same  precision  that  a 
darkey  carries  a  pail  of  water.  In  religion  he  was  a  strict 
Baptist ;  and  when  he  walked  he  jerked  himself  along  as  if 
bound  to  a  twisted  board  up  and  down  his  back.  He  was  a 
leading  man  in  his  church ;  and  indeed  many  people  said 
that  he  had,  on  many  occasions,  led  his  whole  church  to  vote 
for  him  for  high  political  offices,  and  thought  his  great  suc 
cess  mainly  attributable  to  this  fact.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he 
never  failed  to  give  liberally  to  any  institution  of  his  church 
— occasionally,  indeed,  he  would  give  considerable  sums  to 
institutions,  especially  educational  institutions,  of  other 
churches.  And  here  again  it  was  charged  that  he  never  did 
anything  but  from  the  very  deepest  policy — that  for  whatever 
he  gave  he  was  absolutely  sure  of  a  return  vastly  larger  than 
ordinary  money-lenders  could  reasonably  hope  ever  to  get. 
In  short,  it  was  said  that  this  man  never  made  a  miscalcula 
tion — that  he  never  failed  to  put  his  money  "  where  it  would 
do  the  most  good." 

It  was  also  said  that  this  man  could  beat  any  man  in 
(Georgia,  or  elsewhere,  at  "  covering  up  his  tracks."  It  was 
currently  believed,  by  some,  that  he  was  always  engaged 
with  governors,  legislatures,  city  councils,  railroad  officials, 
and  great  speculators,  in  certain  mysteries ;  and  many  peo 
ple  seemed  to  have  a  vague  feeling — some  of  them  expressed 
it  with  great  clearness  and  unction — that  these  mysterious 
transactions,  if  the  truth  was  known,  were  of  the  very  dark- 


32  gA  TEA. 

est  character,  enormously  swindling  at  all  points ;  and  that 
if  the  mask  could  only  be  torn  off,  this  saint  of  the  church, 
this  man  who  was  always  ready  to  give  more  than  anybody 
else  to  all  religious,  educational,  and  charitable  institutions — 
this  man,  with  his  honeyed  words  and  gracious  smile  blandly 
spreading  from  shore  to  shore,  would  be  found  to  be  the 
wiliest  hypocrite,  the  most  hardened,  skilful,  practised,  un 
conscionable  knave  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Others,  mys 
tical  and  literally,  affirmed,  "  I  know  not  well  what  he  is ; 
but  a  precise  villain  he  is — that  I  am  sure  of."  If  he  was 
on  speaking  terms  with  the  Governor,  some  people  were  duly 
qualified  to  swear  that,  according  to  the  best  of  their  knowl 
edge  and  belief,  he  was  the  real  Governor ;  that  lie  was  "  run 
ning  the  government ; "  that  the  man  in  the  Executive  man 
sion  was  a  mere  puppet  in  his  hands ;  nay,  that  in  all  proba 
bility  said  puppet  was  put  where  he  was  by  the  influence  of 
this  man  himself,  in  order  that  he  might  with  greater  secrecy 
and  safety  make  his  "  raids  upon  the  treasury."  If  Ms  car 
riage  was  -seen  in  front  of  a  printing-office,  it  was  positively 
asserted  that  that  paper  had  been  paid  a  round  sum  to  pub 
lish  two  columns  of  lies,  editorially,  for  him  at  an  early  day ; 
for  which  he  was  sure,  somewhere,  at  some  time,  to  receive 
at  least  ten  times  what  he  paid  the  paper.  If  he  was  seen  to 
whisper  in  the  ear  of  a  member  of  the  legislature,  the  mem 
ber  was  bribed  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt;  if  he  took 
him  by  the  hand — if  you  were  sharp  enough — you  could  get 
the  glimpse  of  a  greenback  sticking  to  the  clumsy  legislator's 
hand  when  he  withdrew  it/  If  th~a  City  Council  had  a  con 
tract  to  let  out,  or  city  property  to  sell,  and  his  name  ap 
peared  anywhere  in  the  transaction,  said  council  was  de- 
bounced  for  having  "sold  out"  to  him.  If  a  newspaper 
said  a  good  word  for  him,  no  doubt  it  was  paid  to  say  it ; 
but  if  it  was  consistently  friendly  towards  him,  manifestly 


ELKTON.  33 

he  either  owned  the  whole  thing  or  a  large  interest  in  it. 
Finally,  when  he  deemed  it  necessary  to  reply,  through  the 
public  print,  to  his  accusers,  and  did  so,  to  all  appearances 
positively  unanswerably,  this  was  only  another  evidence  of 
his  wonderful  astuteness  in  "covering  up  his  tracks."  He 
was  said  to  have  the  advantage  of  everybody  else  in  this ; 
that  he  kept  a  stenographer  constantly  on  hand  to  take  down 
everything  you  said ;  all  of  which  could  be  so  artfully  mani 
pulated  as  always  to  make  for  himself  a  clear  case.  But  the 
clearer  his  case  the  worse  it  was  for  him — clearly  there  was 
something  dark  behind ;  nay,  for  that  matter,  he  could  make 
black  white,  or  white  black,  with  the  utmost  precision 
and  despatch.  The  man  was  fearfully  and  wonderfully 
made  ! 

But  these  were  simply  the  assertions  of  this  man's  enemies ; 
and  it  may  be  laid  down  as  a  rule  not  to  be  lost  sight  of,  that 
it  will  never  do  to  trust  what  one's  enemies  say.  Meanwhile 
Mr.  Malcomb's  friends  remained  silent,  not  deeming  it  neces 
sary  to  say  anything.  Not  that  these  enemies  were  all  per 
sons  to  be  despised ;  indeed,  some  of  them  were  individuals 
of  the  largest  pretentious.  Notably,  one  of  them  declared, 
heroically,  that  he  could  trace  his  blood  back  through  four 
centuries  of  ancestors,  upon  whose  escutcheon  there  was  never 
a  stain  !  for  which,  probably,  he  deserved  the  greatest  credit. 
But  Mr.  Malcomb  remarked,  with  characteristic  pungency, 
that  he  had  known  many  better  men,  possibly  a  few  worse 
men,  perhaps  some  as  vain  upstarts,  who  traced  their  ancestry 
back  six  thousand  years ;  the  question  of  this  gentleman's  an 
cestry  therefore  was  peculiarly  a  question  for  the  pithacholo- 
gist.  i 

But  the  case  was  this  :  Mr.  Malcomb  wanted  money ;  so  he 
worked  hard  to  make  it.  He  worked  with  great  skill  and 
energy  ;  so  he  made  money  rapidly.  He  was  deeply  religiousj 


34  <?A   IKA. 

believed  strongly  in  education,  and  he  was  wealthy;  so  he 
gave  liberally  to  all  religious  and  educational  institutions. 
In  a  word,  he  was  eminently  successful ;  therefore  not  with 
out  enemies.  They  said  to  themselves  :  This  man  has  no  bet 
ter  business  capacity  than  I  have ;  he  does  not  work  as  hard 
as  I  do ;  he  has  no  more  energy — not  so  much — and  I  know 
he  has  no  more  sense  than  I  have  ;  and  yet  he  makes  ten  times 
as  much  as  I  do !  How  is  this  ?  Why,  I,  like  a  fool,  have 
been  honest  all  my  life  !  He  is  dishonest.  But  Mr.  Mai- 
comb  was  chiefly  assailed  as  a  public  man.  He  had  the  rare 
sagacity  to  perceive  at  the  close  of  the  war  that  the  civiliza 
tion  peculiar  to  the  South  had  passed  away,  and  forever.  He 
advised  the  people  to  accept  the  terms  offered  them ;  they 
might  consider  them  hard,  but  if  they  did  not  accept  them 
they  would  surely  go  further  and  fare  worse.  But  this  man 
was  not  only  a  most  sagacious  observer  of  events ;  he  was 
also  a  most  acute  and  just  judge  of  character.  He  saw  in 
General  Grant  in  the  beginning  what  he  has  since  abundantly 
proved  himself  to  be  :  a  most  generous  man,  and  friendly  to 
wards  the  South.  Also  he  saw  that  General  Grant  was  not 
only  the  most  powerful,  by  the  course  of  events,  but  the 
coolest  and  clearest-headed  man  in  the  Republic ;  that  he 
was  probably  the  only  man  who  could  bring  the  country  out 
of  the  chaos  in  which  it  then  was.  So  he  advised  the  people 
to  accept  him.  What  an  Iliad  of  woes  might  thus  have  been 
escaped  !  The  bitterness  of  those  times  will  long  be  remem 
bered.  One  may  as  well  attempt  to  bottle  up  the  force  of 
gravity  in  glass  jars,  as  to  estimate  the  fierceness  of  this  bit 
terness.  Upon  this  man  it  spent  its  utmost  fury.  But  what, 
in  such  circumstances,  is  the  greatest  consolation  ?  It  is 
even  this :  to  know  that  what  you  are  denounced  for  is  solely 
the  good  that  is  in  you.  What,  in  such  circumstance,  is 
the  greatest  solace  to  human  pride  ?  It  is  even  this :  to 


ELKTON%  35 

know  that  time  will  not  fail  to  furnish  you  a  sure  vindica 
tion.  And  both  of  these  Mr.  Malcomb  had.  He  knew  that 
he  was  right ;  he  knew  that  time  would  prove  it. 

Mrs.  Malcomb  was  universally  beloved.  As  if  to  make  up 
for  the  many  bad  things  said  about  her  husband,  everybody 
lavished  upon  her  their  praises.  She  had  a  certain  independ 
ence  and  originality  of  thought  rarely  seen  in  a  woman.  It 
seemed  to  be  the  object  of  her  existence  to  make  all  about 
her  happy.  An  earnest,  common-sense,  practical,  pure,  high- 
minded  woman ;  a  woman  who  had  comprehended  this  im 
portant  truth,  that  she  had  a  work  to  do ;  who  saw  clearly 
what  it  was,  and  went  straight  forward  to  its  accomplish 
ment.  No  sham,  no  semblance,  no  make-believe,  no  falsity, 
but  a  really  true  woman,  who  felt  that  she  was  what  she  was 
by  the  grace  of  God,  and  that  she  should  do  the  work  well  ap 
pointed  her  to  do.  She  called  her  husband  "  Mr.  Malcomb." 
Why  did  she  not  call  him,  especially  when  in  presence  of 
strangers,  by  some  of  his  titles  ?  For  Mr.  Malcomb  had  filled 
more,  than  one  of  the  highest  offices.  But  she  called  him 
"  Mr.  Malcomb."  Could  any  thing  be  prettier  ?  Many  years 
before,  these  two  had  begun  life,  as  the  saying  goes,  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder,  as  plain  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Malcomb.  She 
called  him  Mr.  Malcomb  then,  and  she  called  him  so  yet. 
Mirabeau  Holmes  was  pai-ticularly  struck  with  this.  He 
thought  it  had  a  bearing  not  only  upon  the  character  of  the 
wife,  but  also  upon  that  of  the  husband.  Ten  to  one,  if  both 
had  not  been  made  of  the  best  material,  she  would  have  called 
him  by  his  most  distinguished  title. 

To  be  sure  Mirabeau  was  not  prepared  to  think  the  best  in 
the  world  of  Robert's  father.  But  his  sister — ah  !  that  was 
different.  He  had  heard  much  of  her.  She  was  not  reputed 
beautiful ;  but  she  was  universally  beloved,  even  by  her  own 
sex,  and  said  to  possess  every  amiable  quality.  She  was  said 


36  gA  IEA. 

to  be  a  second  edition  of  her  mother,  which  was  thought  to 
be  the  highest  praise. 

The  day  after  Mirabeau's  arrival  Henry  Broughton  came 
by  in  the  afternoon,  and  left  his  sister  at  "Elkton."  That 
night,  after  Betty  Broughton  had  gone,  they  were  all  seated 
out  on  the  veranda,  in  the  moonlight  and  breeze,  when  Mr. 
Malcomb  said  : 

"  So  you  have  had  Betty  Broughton  with  you  this  after 
noon.  How  did  Mr.  Holmes  like  our  mountain  beauty  ? 
Carried  his  heart  away  with  her,  I  doubt  not." 

"From  circumstances  over  which  I  had  no  control,  but 
which  Robert  can  probably  explain,  I  saw  very  little  of  her. 
As  for  carrying  away  with  her  the  article  you  have  men 
tioned,  why  that  had  just  been  disposed  of,"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  But  if  you  say  you  did  not  wish  the  title-deeds  cancelled 
when  you  saw  Betty  Broughton,  I  think  it  will  require  at 
least  two  witnesses  to  establish  a  fact  so  unlikely,"  said  Mr. 
Malcomb. 

"  If  one  would  be  sufficient,  I  think  possibly  the  old  oak 
out  there  might  be  made  to  answer,"  suggested  Robert. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  too  well  taught  to  think  of  ever  tell 
ing  secrets,"  said  Marian. 

"  Fortunate  training,  Marian,  or  else  I  think  it  might  re 
fresh  the  recollection  of  a  very  near  relative  of  ours,"  said 
Mrs.  Malcomb,  glancing  towards  Robert. 

"  Well  then,"  said  Mr.  Malcomb,  "  the  case  is  clear  that 
we  have  not  even  one  trustworthy  witness.  So  Mr.  Holmes 
must  remain  at  (  Elkton '  until  events  furnish  circumstantial 
evidence.  And  to-morrow  morning,  while  Robert  is  gone  to 
town,  I  will  show  him  the  '  Evening  Star.'  " 

"  But  yovi  must  not  show  him  the  '  River,'  father ;  you 
must  leave  that  to  me ;  I  must  take  Mr.  Holmes  there  •  we 
shall  be  there  just  at  sunset,"  said  Marian. 


ELKTON.  37 

"  How  could  I  have  hoped  for  so  much  pleasure  in  one 
day  !  "  exclaimed  Mirabeau. 

"  AVhat,"  said  Robert,  "  that  I  have  to  ride  nearly  a  half- 
day's  journey,  among  other  things  !  But  I  hope  you  may  be 
as  well  entertained  as  you  seemed  to  be  this  afternoon." 

"  As  if  he  had  any  time  to  observe  whether  others  were 
well  or  ill  entertained,"  observed  his  mother. 

"  He  was  willing  to  trust  that  to  his  sister,  mother,"  said 
Marian. 

"  What  time  does  the  moon  rise  ?  "  asked  Robert,  gravely. 

"  About  an  hour  after  dark,"  answered  his  mother,  who 
noticed  everything. 

"Why,  what  can  you  want  to  know  that  for?"  asked 
Marian. 

"  Because  you  will  stay  at  the  '  River '  to  see  the  sun  set ; 
and  I  thought  if  the  moon,  or  even  any  particular  star,  should 
rise  in  a  couple  of  hours,  you  would  stay  to  see  that.  And  I 
tell  you,  Holmes,  it  is  poetical  to  see  from  the  River  the 
moon  rise  over  the  Blue  Ridge.  It  will  inspire  you  to  write 
some  verses,"  said  Robert. 

"  I  can  answer  for  not  needing  that  inspiration,"  said 
Mirabeau. 

"  Clearly  I  shall  find  you  at  the  River,  if  I  am  till  ten 
o'clock  getting  back,"  added  Robert. 

The  morrow  came,  and  the  people  of  "  Elkton  "  were  up 
early.  They  were  not  what  are  called  "  fashionable  people." 
The  case  is  that  there  are  very  few,  if  any,  of  what  are  conven 
tionally  known — that  is  in  novels — as  "  fashionable  people  " 
in  this  country.  And  this  was  what  Mirabeau  thought  next 
morning,  when,  pretty  soon  after  sunrise,  he  was  called  to 
breakfast.  He  remembered  that  this  had  always  been  the 
case  with  him  in  his  ramblings  through  this  and  neighboring 
States.  And  it  struck  him  more  forcibly  this  morning  than 


38  gA  IKA. 

ever  before,  that  it  would  be  well  enough  to  have  it  at  once 
and  clearly  understood,  that  when  the  honest  people  of  this 
country  speak  of  ""breakfast"  they  mean  a  meal  generally 
taken  at  any  hour  from  day-break  to  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  the  main  stake  of  said  meal  usually  being  beefsteak 
— when  comeatible — with  biscuits,  butter,  and  cofi'ee.  He  was 
also  of  opinion  that  it  was  a  safe  thing  to  remember  that  "  din 
ner  "  with  this  people  always  means  such  soups,  bread,  vege 
tables,  bacon,  roast-beef,  pork,  chickens,  sour-krout,  cakes,  cus 
tards,  puddings,  pies,  tarts,  jellies,  what  not,  all  or  any  as  the 
case  may  be,  even  down  to  pea-soup,  with  or  without  a  napkin, 
as  it  is  their  custom  to  eat  at  any  time  from  half  after  eleven  to 
two  o'clock  in  the  day.  He  also  considered  that  there  was  a 
third  meal  known  as  "  supper,"  sometimes  taken  before  sun- 
set~-that  is,  by  people  who  go  to  bed  by  dark  to  save  candles, 
but  usually  from  seven  to  eight  P.M.,  devoted  mainly  to 
such  mutton-chops,  waffles,  butter,  coffee,  and  tea  as  one  may 
be  abR  to  afford.  In  short,  by  the  time  he  had  got  to  the 
end  of  buttoning  up  his  vest  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  one  of  the  commandments  in  this  country  was  this :  If 
thou  art  an  honest,  working  man,  and  canst  by  any  means  con 
trive  to  keep  thyself  clear  of  the  State  prison,  thou  shalt  have 
three  meals  per  day — breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  ;  besides 
these  three  thou  shalt  have  no  other  meal  before  thee.  As 
for  "  luncheon "  though,  there  was  no  such  institution  at 
"  Elkton ; "  neither  had  he  come  across  it  in  his  travels.  To 
be  sure,  when  he  was  a  boy,  his  mother  had  been  constantly 
engaged  in  giving  him  something  cold  out  of  the  safe  "  be 
tween  meals."  If  that  was  "  luncheon,"  why,  "  luncheon  " 
was  well  enough ;  nay,  if  that  was  "  luncheon,"  "  luncheon  " 
was  a  good  thing ;  peace  be  with  "  luncheon  !  "  But  as  for 
"  luncheon "  in  the  English  sense  of  the  word,  away  with 
it !  We  have  none  of  it  in  this  country ;  neither  are  we 


ELKTON.  39 

likely  to  have.  As  for  John  Bull — that  is,  the  John  Bull 
of  English  novels,  especially  Mr.  Disraeli's — all  his  time,  like 
Gaul,  is  divided  into  three  parts  :  dancing,  four  hours  ;  sleep 
ing,  nine,;  eating,  eleven  !  And  may  the  Lord  have  mercy 
upon  his  soul. 


40  A  IKA. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

"  H  history  is  the  government  of  God,  made  visible,  then  everything  is  there  in 
its  place ;  and  if  everything  is  there  in  its  place,  everything  is  there  for  good." 

— OOTTSTN. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Mirabeau  to  Mr.  Malcomb  next  day 
as  they  rode  over  his  splendid  farm,  "  do  you  think  the 
negroes  are  much  worse  off  now  than  when  they  had  masters 
to  provide  for  and  protect  them  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  j  udgment  is  that  they  are  much 
better  off  now  than  then.  I  think  the  next  census  will  de 
monstrate  that  they  are  growing  both  in  population  and  in 
the  comforts  of  life." 

"  What  of  their  future  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  very  large  question.  In  fact,  of  all  the  great 
questions  before  us,  in  my  judgment,  that  is  the  most  impor 
tant.  But,  like  all  other  great  qxiestions,  it  can  best  be  dealt 
with  by  the  very  simple  plan  of  '  accepting  the  situation,' 
making  the  very  best  of  it  you  can,  looking  to  the  future  and 
not  to  the  past.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  needs  no  great 
amount  of  wisdom  to  teach  us  that  in  all  the  affairs  of  life, 
public  or  private,  to  accept  the  inevitable  as  inevitable,  and 
strive  for  the  best  that  is  before  you,  ought  to  be  admitted 
on  all  hands  to  be  the  true  policy." 

"  But  there  might  be  a  difference,  of  opinion  as  to  what  is 
the  inevitable,  as  to  what  are  accomplished  facts." 

"  I  see  the  drift  of  your  remark.  There  have  been  the 
greatest  and  most  unfortunate  differences  of  opinion  among 
our  people  on  this  subject.  But  they  will  not  last  very  long ; 
in  a  little  while  the  hottest  Bourbons  among  us  will  accept 


ELKTON.  41 

the  situation.  They  will  get  up  many  excuses,  and  try  hard, 
perhaps  not  without  success  with  some,  to  make  people  be 
lieve  they  are  consistent.  But  the  core  of  the  matter  will  be 
the  same.  Your  question  about  the  future  of  the  black  race, 
which  we  are  about  to  get  away  from,  I  can  only  answer  in 
a  general  way.  I  do  not  believe  they  are  going  gradually  to 
die  out,  or  go  back  into  barbarism  and  idolatry,  as  some  seem 
to  think.  On  the  contrary,  my  judgment  is  that  they  will 
grow  more  and  more  prosperous,  and  make  as  good  free 
laborers  as  any  country  has.  But  we  must  treat  them  kindly, 
deal  honestly  with  them,  and  do  all  we  can  in  our  present 
impoverished  condition  to  educate  and  elevate  them." 
"  What  of  miscegenation  in  the  distant  future  ?  " 
"  I  have  not  much  fear  of  that.  The  antagonism  between 
the  white  and  black  races  is  too  great.  But  if  there  should 
come  in  a  third  race,  that  would  act  as  a  kind  of  middle 
ground,  I  would  not  answer  for  the  consequences.  We 
might  then,  in  the  distant  future,  go  the  way  of  Mexico  and 
South  America.  But  I  have  little  fear  of  that." 

"  Upon  the  whole,  I  see  you  are  hopeful  of  our  future." 
"  Yes ;  we  have  a  great  future,  if  our  people  will  only  rise 
to  meet  it.  But  they  must  learn  several  things.  They  must 
learn  to  look  at  things  as  they  are,  and  try  to  make  the  best 
of  them.  Why  should  we  look  back  ?  We  have  neither 
time  nor  strength  to  waste  in  defence  of  theories  and  systems 
that  have  been  forever  swept  away  by  the  progress  of  actual 
events.  They  must  learn  that  we  cannot  live  by  the  defeated 
past.  They  must  learn  that  we  cannot  possibly  gain  any 
thing  either  by  declaiming  against  or  mourning  over  the 
past ;  but  that  is  precisely  what  most  of  our  leading  men  are 
doing,  instead  of  striving  to  arouse  in  the  people  an  ambition 
to  bring  their  country  forward,  even  after  all  its  misfortunes, 
to  be  the  peer  of  the  greatest  and  foremost  in  civilization, 


42  £A   TEA. 

Two  things  we  must  have  before  we  can  hope  to  do  much, 
skilled  labor  and  popular  education.  These  are  the  springs 
of  power  and  wealth  in  modern  civilization.  I  have  no 
laments  to  make  over  the  past.  My  religion  teaches  me  that 
whatever  is  in  history  is  there  under  Providence,  and  must 
be  for  good." 

They  were  riding  over  the  finest  farm  of  the  most  beauti 
ful  valley  in  the  world.  Here  were  fields  of  hundreds  of 
acres,  level  as  a  floor,  square,  and  with  rows  running  clear 
across,  straight  as  a  "  bee-line,"  and  regular  as  to  width.  In 
slavery  times  the  chief  end  of  a  ploughboy's  existence  was  to 
get  the  overseer  to  put  him  to  laying  oft*  rows  !  It  was 
striven  for  as  a  post  of  honor,  and  they  had  the  best  mules. 
When  learning  the  art  they*  kept  at  each  end  of  the  row  a 
measure  for  making  all  the  same  width,  and  a  slender  staff 
•with  a  tuft  of  cotton  on  the  end.  They  drove  the  staff  down 
at  the  proper  place,  and  when  driving  towards  it  kept  the 
tuft  of  cotton  steadily  in  view,  looking  between  the  ears  of 
the  mule.  After  a  while  they  dispensed  with  the  measure, 
and  for  the  staff  substituted  any  object  which  happened  to  be 
in  the  right  place. 

They  rode  through  sweet  meadow-lands  and  great  fields  of 
grain  and  cotton.  The  cotton-plants,  with  their  dark,  rich 
leaves,  were  as  high  as  the  horses ;  here  and  there  was  a  full 
white  blossom  on  the  very  summit  of  the  stalk,  and  the  long 
limbs,  reaching  from  row  to  row,  bent  to  the  earth  with 
great  speckled  bolls.  Here  and  there,  say  four  or  five  in  a 
field  of  an  hundred  acres,  were  great  shady  oaks.  On  a  hot 
summer  day  nothing  could  look  more  cool  and  watery. 
These  splendid  shade-trees  were  doubtless  left  for  the  con 
venience  of  overseers  and  masters.  For,  manifestly,  Provi 
dence  never  intended  shade-trees  for  '  niggers  and  mules.'  Nay, 
is  was  for  this  that  they  had  been  placed  in  Africa  instead 


ELKTON.  43 

of  a  cold  country  :  that  they  might  have  the  benefit  of  some 
thousands  of  years'  training  under  tropical  suns,  the  better  to 
fit  them  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  designs  of  Providence  ;  that 
they  should,  in  due  time,  be  exalted  from  their  heathen  bar 
barism,  and  brought  over  here  to  be  taught  the  wondrous 
story  of  the  cross ;  made  happy  and  sleek  upon  the  fat  of  the 
land — a  peck  of  potatoes,  or  three  pounds  of  bacon  and  a 
peck  of  meal  per  week,  according  as  the  master  happened  to 
be  saint  or  sinner — and  industrious  by  being  often  reminded 
of  the  divine  injunction,  "  Whatsoever  thy  hands  find  to  do, 
do  it  with  all  thy  might."  All  of  which  was  duly  considered 
and  ordered  by  Providence  some  years  before  the  foundation 
of  the  world. 

As  for  mules  !  Talk  about  harmony  of  design  in  giving 
cranes  long  necks,  and  ducks  and  geese  web-feet.  Cranes 
and  geese,  indeed  !  They  were  nothing  to  '  niggers  and 
mules.'  Suppose  we  had  got  all  these  negroes  over  here  and 
had  no  mules.  Cotton  would  have  been  impossible,  and  the 
world  would  have  gone  naked.  (Oh  that  we  had  never  seen  a 
mule  !)  Horses  ?  Horses,  indeed  !  The  whole  breed  would 
have  been  killed  out  in  ten  years.  Horses  were  made  for 
white  folks ;  white  folks  were  not  made  for  cotton-fields ; 
therefore,  horses  were  not  made  for  cotton-fields !  Mules 
were  made  for  negroes ;  negroes  were  made  for  cotton-fields ; 
ergo,  design,  design — nothing  like  design  ! 

"  We  follow  this  path  now,"  said  Marian  that  afternoon  as 
she  and  Mirabeau  were  going  to  the  '  River,'  "  and  at  the 
gate,  where  you  see  the  large  oak,  we  go  out  into  the  wood 
land.  Father  said  he  would  make  a  wide  walk  all  the  way 
to  the  *  River,'  with  shade  and  grass  and  hedges,  but  to 
humor  a  whim  of  mine  he  left  it  as  it  is.  See  what  a  hard 
path  it  is ;  it  is  an  old  Indian  trail.  Should  you  not  have 
left  it  so  ?  " 


44  £A   IKA. 

"  I  think  I  should  like  a  compromise  between  yours  and 
your  father's  plans ;  that  is,  I  wish  the  Indians  had  made  the 
path  wide  enough  for  two  people  to  walk  in.  See  !  look  back 
over  your  shoulder ;  there  is  your  mother  looking  at  us ; 
laughing,  I  reckon.  How  absurd  we  must  look,  walking 
along  here  single-file  like  the  Indians." 

"  Isn't  that  pretty  enough  ?  Sautee  and  Nacoochee  may 
have  walked  along  this  very  path,  like  we  are  now." 

"  Shouldn't  you  think  the  young  chief  must  have  carried 
the  '  Evening  Star  '  upon  his  back  that  night  ?  " 

"  Tradition  has  it  that  she  herself  was  as  fleet  as  the  ante 
lope." 

"  Still  he  might  have  carried  her,  to  make  sure  of  her  and 
to  show  his  love." 

"  In  that  case  I  think  he  would  have  taken  her  in  his 
arms." 

"  How  stupid  in  me  not  to  have  thought  of  that.  Sautee 
himself  might  have  known  that  much." 

"  I  suspect  Sautee  could  have  taught  you  more  lessons 
than  one." 

"  If  he  could  teach  me  how  to  win  the  '  Queen  of  the 
Valley,'  I  wish  he  might  be  induced  to  visit  his  old  hunting- 
grounds  again." 

"  Oh,  he  would  not  come  to  the  hunting-grounds  to  teach 
you  that  lesson." 

"  Where  would  he  come  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  that  pretty  grotto  in  the  side  of  old  Yonah  there." 

"  That  was  their  bridal  chamber.  He  would  come  right 
down  here  on  the  river,  where  they  gathered  muscadines  to 
gether." 

"  They  never  gathered  muscadines  together.  The  old 
chief  kept  strict  watch  over  his  daughter.  He  wouldn't  let 
them  go  off  together." 


ELKTON.  45 

"  I  don't  remember  the  legend.     Will  you  tell  it  me?  " 

"  To-morrow,  when  we  go  to  Yonah  and  see  their  '  bridal 
chamber,'  I  will  see  what  you  know  about  it." 

They  had  now  reached  the  "  River."  It  was  a  spot  to 
linger  in.  Doubtless  many  a  Cherokee  youth  had  told  his 
tale  of  love  beneath  these  very  shades.  Nacoochee  and  her 
maidens  have  bathed  in  these  waters,  plucked  the  jessamine 
flowers  that  grow  upon  the  banks,  and  mingled  their  evening 
songs  with  the  lays  of  the  zephyr  and  murmuring  Chatta- 
hoochee.  The  breeze  which  springs  up  about  noon  had  died 
away  to  a  soft  zephyr,  as  if  weary  of  its  burden  of  sweets 
from  the  meadows.  And  the  splendid  October  sun  lingered 
a  moment  upon  the  western  hills  for  a  last  look  upon  this 
loveliest  spot  in  all  his  dominions,  and  then,  gathering  about 
him  his  curtains  of  russet  and  gold,  sank  to  rest.  They  were 
seated  upon  the  river-bank. 

"  Do  you  not  like  the  setting  better  than  the  rising  sun  ?  " 
asked  Marian. 

"  That  is  as  much  as  to  ask  me  if  I  like  subdued  senti 
ment  better  than  display  and  triumph." 

"  To  me  there  always  seemed  something  bizarre  about  the 
rising  sun ;  not  only  a  kind  of  pompous  pride,  a  haughty 
insolence,  but  even  a  certain  amount  of  vanity,  rejoicing  in 
fine  speeches  and  compliments." 

"  But  suppose  the  sun  had  consciousness,  what  a  grand 
life  it  would  live  !  Just  think ;  we  have  only  now  witnessed 
a  gorgeous  setting :  to  think  that  every  hour  of  the  twenty- 
four,  and  every  minute  of  each  hour,  repeats  the  phenome 
non.  What  a  succession  of  grandeurs !  Or  rather  what  a 
continued  double  glory.  Ever  rising  and  ever  setting.  If 
we  had  been  in1  Japan  just  now,  which  God  forbid  we  should 
have  been,  we  had  seen  the  rising  sun." 

"  Provided  we  had  been  up." 


46  gA  ERA. 

"  Yes,  provided  we  had  been  up,  which  we  would  have 
been  if  '  Elkton '  had  been  there." 

"9r  <  Ashton'  either?" 

"  Yes ;  or  any  other  sensible  place.  But  not  being  in 
Japan,  but  here  in  America,  at  '  Elkton'  (for  which  exalted 
be  the  name  Allah  !),  we  have  seen  the  mellowest  sunset  I 
have  ever  witnessed." 

"  The  rising  sun  the  world  flies  to  meet,  and  when  it  gets 
near  enough  it  falls  down  and  cries,  All  hail !  The  setting 
sun  the  world  turns  its  back  upon  and  hurries  from." 

"  Pity  to  spoil  such  a  pretty  sentiment,  but  this  is  a  sci 
entific  age.  The  king  of  day  comes  rejoicing  to  fill  the 
earth  with  warmth,  and  clothe  it  in  beauty ;  and  so  nature 
welcomes  him  with  music,  and  scatters  flowers  before  him. 
But  the  setting  sun  deserts  the  world,  leaving  it  to  shiver  in 
the  cold  and  darkness ;  why  should  not  nature  turn  its  back 
upon  such  a  monster  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  have  not  spoilt  the  sentiment." 

"  The  more  disgraceful,  then,  the  attempt." 

"  The  sun  does  not  desert  the  earth,  but  the  earth  the 
sun  ;  that  is,  unless  you  have  a  new  astronomy  since  I  went 
to  school,  which  indeed  you  might  have,  for  that  was  a  long 
time  ago." 

"  What  a  pity  the  setting  sun  cannot  express  its  gratitude 
to  you  for  your  championship  !  Are  there  not  some  inani 
mate  objects  that  you  wish  were  possessed  of  consciousness 
and  a  language?"  '  f 

"  Yes ;  this  river,  for  instance,  wh^ch  I  love  dearly." 

"  What  a  pretty  story  it  could  tell  of  its  own  life  and 
wanderings  ! " 

"  Yes,  it  rises  away  up  among  the  mountain's.  What  a  little 
history  it  has  by  the  time  it  gets  to  the  sea  !  Nacoochee,  In 
dian  hunting-grounds,  wheat  fields  of  Cherokee, '  Lovers'  leap,' 


ELKTON.  47 

cotton  plantations,  magnolia  and  orange  groves — wouldn't  it 
be  pretty  ?  But  then  the  river  of  yesterday  is  not  the  river 
of  to-day.  The  river  we  see  here  now  is  leaving  us — going 
on  to  the  sea." 

"  Oh,  no.  You  might  as  well  say  that  we  ourselves  are 
not  the  same  beings  we  were  some  years  ago,  because  the 
bones,  muscles,  and  tissues  are  continually  wearing  out,  the 
atoms  giving  place  to  new  ones." 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that  way." 

"  But  you  asked  just  now,"  said  Marian,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "  if  I  did  not  wish  sone  inanimate  objects  had  feeling, 
and  language  to  express  it.  Might  they  not  have  a  language 
and  ourselves  not  be  able  to  understand  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  look  at  the  river  here.  See  how  gently  the  little 
waves  rise  and  fall,  and  listen  to  the  low  rhythmic  hum.  Cer 
tainly  there  is  music — maybe  a  language.  It  reminds  one  of 
that  pleasurable  subdued  content  with  which  the  mind  con 
templates  the  conflicts  and  crises  of  life  which  lie  back  behind, 
fought  and  won." 

"  Just  above  here  is  the  great  gorge  where  the  river  had  to 
cut  its  way  through  the  mountain — that  was  one  of  its  great 
conflicts.  But  some  encounter  a  great  many  more,  and 
harder  obstacles  than  others." 

"  So  it  is  with  men  and  women." 

"  Some  are  muddy  and  some  clear ;  but  so  it  is  in  human 
character.  Let  me  see.  But  rivers  cannot  change  their 
course ;  many  are  compelled  to  lose  themselves  in  wastes 
and  horrible  marshes."  And  her  great  dark  eyes  showed 
that  she  was  curious  to  know  what  he  would  say  to  this. 

"  I  am  not  sure  but  the  analogy  may  go  on.  The  dogma 
of  necessity,  in  its  theological  sense,  may  or  may  not  be  true. 
I  rather  think  we  are  under  the  special  dominion  of  geog 
raphy." 


48  gA  IEA. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  *  necessity  ? ' ' 

"  Not  much  since  I  read  Bledsoe's  '  Theodicy.'     But  how 
do  you  prove  that  the  will  is  free  ?  " 
"  Oh,  I  don't  prove  it.     But  " 


"  Well — « as  old  Dr.  Johnson  said '  "- 


"  Yes ;  as  old  Dr.  Johnson  said :  '  We  know  our  will  is 
free,  and  there's  an  end  on't.' " 

"  Ay.  You  know  it  because  you  feel  it ;  but  if  some  one 
should  tell  you  that  he  knew  just  the  opposite,  and  from  the 
same  reason  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  believe  it." 

"  Well,  sure  enough,  there's  an  end  on't." 

"  But  suppose  all  plants  had  feeling  ?  " 

"  The  most  beautiful,  the  most  highly  organized,  would 
have  the  most  delicate  feeling." 

"  Then  I  should  not  pluck  any  more  flowers,  I  could  not 
make  any  more  bouquets." 

"  I  was  only  supposing  a  case.  Will  you  make  me  a 
bouquet  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  we  will  talk  about  it  afterwards — whether  it 
was  wrong  or  no." 

"  As  the  French  do  in  their  Revolutions,  when  they  try 
men  for  their  lives." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  return,  if  only  to  meet  Robert 
before  he  gets  here.  See !  the  stars  have  been  out  a  long 
time." 

"  Why,  they  are  just  coming  out.  I  fear  the  air  feels  too 
cold  to  you." 

"  No,  it  does  not.  But  suppose  it  did,  what  could  you 
do?" 

"  I  could  wish  it  felt  warmer." 

"  If  that  would  do  any  good  you  might  wish  we  had  re 
turned  half  an  hour  ago." 


ELKTON.  49 

"  Never.  T  should  ask  you  to  stay  till  the  moon  is  up,  if 
I  was  not  afraid  you  might  take  the  croup." 

"  Croup  indeed  !  Children  have  croup.  I  have  been  out 
of  danger  from  that  many,  many  years.  You  would  .feel 
shocked  if  I  should  tell  you  how  many." 

"  Not  at  all.  The  greater  the  number  the  greater  the  safety. 
I  should  only  feel  glad." 

Mirabeau  Holmes  had  no  notion  of  marrying.  He  did 
not  dream  of  finding  himself  in  love  with  any  woman.  Possi 
bly,  to  be  scrupulously  exact,  I  ought  to  qualify  this  by  say 
ing  that  he  had  certainly  dreamed  no  such  dream  for  some 
years,  up  to  the  evening  we  have  just  seen  him  at  the  river 
with  Marian  Malcomb.  Once  in  his  life — but  it  was  like  Cap 
tain  Piiiter'-s  story — he  had  thought  of  marrying  early.  In 
deed,  he  had  been  heard  more  than  once  to  maintain  with 
much  warmth  that  men  ought  to  marry,  ordinarily,  at  eigh 
teen.  Let  no  one  suppose  that  he  had  come  to  this  conclusion 
because  he  was,  or  thought  he  was,  in  love  with  Kate  Fletcher, 
a  pretty  girl  in  the  neighborhood  of  "  Ashton  "  that  he  used 
to  "  pull  candy  "  with.  Kate  was  some  years  his  senior  in 
years,  but  he  was  confident  that  they  should  marry  on  his 
eighteenth  birthday.  Not  that  he  was  seeking  a  theory 
whereby  to  justify  his  own  intended  acts. 

But  as  to  this  notion  of  his,  that  men  ought  to  many  at 
eightewi,  and  girls,  generally — Kate  being  the  only  exception 
he  knew — not  more  than  three  years  later  than  the  tender 
age  fixed  for  them  by  the  great  Roman  lawgiver  (in  order, 
said  the  good  Numa,  that  the  Roman  citizen  might  train  up 
to  his  liking  a  docile  and  obedient  wife),  this  notion  was 
honestly  come  at,  and  held,  as  he  thought,  for  the  best  of 
good  and  sufficient  reasons.  From  eighteen  to  twenty-five, 
he  thought,  is  the  great  period  of  temptation.  Very  few 
boys  are  tempted  to  ruin  before  they  are  eighteen;  therefore, 


50  gA  IRA. 

if  they  should  marry  at  that  age,  the  probability  is  that  they 
would  turn  out  to  be  industrious  men,  with  temperate  habits, 
comfortable  homes,  and  a  plurality  of  children.  Moreover, 
marriages  between  youthful  persons  are  almost  sure  to  be 
happy.  Their  characters  being  in  the  inilk,  so  to  speak, 
easily  run  into  each  other  and  assimilate.  But  there  are 
cases  where,  from  strong  differences  of  character,  if  parents 
are  determined  quite,  it  might  be  advisable  to  get  the  mat 
ter  done  with,  say,  at  twelve  and  fourteen.  In  this  case, 
failing  to  assimilate,  Pumpkin  would  still  have  time,  before 
getting  palsied,  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  cook  ;  and  poor 
Mrs.  Pumpkin,  after  some  years  of  hard  but  unsuccessful 
work  at  assimilating  herself  to  Pumpkin,  would  still — in  a 
temperate  zone — be  the  possessor  of  enough  lingering  charms 
to  justify  a  feeble  hope  of  eloping  with  the  Methodist 
preacher.  Qf  course,  Mirabeau  did  not  push  the  argument 
to  the  wall  this  way.  "  But,"  he  went  on,  "  if  men  live  to  be 
twenty-five  without  marrying,  the  probability  is  that  their 
case  is  hopeless.  They  have  got  themselves  into  bad  habits, 
drinking,  smoking,  billiard-playing,  what  not.  Moreover, 
their  plans  have  probably  become  unfixed,  and  their  charac 
ter  itself  fitful  and  uncertain.  The  brain  gets  crowded  with 
notions,  and  by  the  time  one  is  about  to  be  fashioned  into 
practice  another  pops  in,  and  then  another,  and  another,  un 
til  he  wakes  up  some  fine  morning  and  finds  himself  u  loafer 
and  a  vagabond  at  thirty.  Then,  seeing  that  he  has  passed 
the  age  of  sentiment,  if  he  marries  at  all  he  must  make  it  a 
matter  of  convenience — and  ten  to  one  it  will  make  itself  a 
matter  of  inconvenience. 

But  by  and  by  there  came  along  a  certain  wheezy  Baptist 
preacher,  by  the  name  of  Squalls — Rev.  John  Ebenezer  Squalls. 
People  had  singings  in  this  country  then,  and  "  candy  pull- 
ings  ; "  and  for  that  matter  I  think  they  have  them  now. 


ELKTON.  51 

Rev.  Squalls  was  also  a  singing-master.  His  sol,  fa,  la  was 
too  much  for  Kate  Fletcher.  She  sloped  with  him,  and  be 
came  the  mother  of  his  children — counting  the  eleven  by  his 
first  spouse,  twenty-one  in  all — and  at  last  accounts  the  cry 
was,  Still  they  come.  All  the  Squalls  children  were  girls. 
They  had  white  tow-heads,  pinched  voices,  celestial  noses, 
gander  eyes,  little  hard  legs — that  is,  when  they  were  quite 
small,  I  know  nothing  of  them  after  they  were  seventeen — 
little  round  legs,  shiny,  long,  and  of  the  same  size  for  an  in 
definite  distance — northward.  They  always  wore  faded  calico 
frocks,  of  the  bed-curtain  variety,  the  backs  being  for  the 
most  part  generally  open  to  conviction.  Invariably  they  out 
grew  their  paiitlets  the  first  week.  Squalls  was  said  to  be  an 
excellent  preacher. 

But  Mirabeau  had  not  thought  of  these  things  lately.  Prob 
ably  he  could  not  now  tell  whether  his  philosophy  had  greatly 
changed  or  not.  Besides,  it  mattered  little  to  him  personally 
any  way,  because  he  was  a  man  with  a  purpose.  He  had  an 
idea  in  his  head,  and  was  greatly  enamoured  of  it.  He  had 
read  Carlyle.  He  had  his  part  to  play  in  life.  Behold  ! 
even  he  had  a  work  appointed  him  to  do.  He  had  no  time 
to  be  thinking  of  love,  marriage,  what  not.  It  had  never  oc 
curred  to  Mirabeau  Holmes  that  a  man  of  talent  and  purpose 
might  be  so  stimulated,'  encouraged,  and  aided  by  a  wife 
worthy  of  him,  as  to  be  able  to  declare,  when  he  had  finished 
a  great  undertaking,  that  whatever  was  greatest  and  best  in 
his  work,  as  in  himself,  he  owed  to  his  wife.  He  had  never 
read  Mill's  splendid  tribute  to  the  memory  of  his  wife.  He 
had  a  notion,  as  I  have  said,  that  even  if  his  wife  should  hap 
pen  to  be  a  woman  of  real  worth,  he  would  still  be  cramped 
and  fettered.  He  would  not  be  so  free  to  expose  himself  to 
risks — either  risks  of  personal  danger,  or,  which  is  of  much 
more  consequence,  risks  of  poverty.  For  while  he  himself 


52  g 

might  be  willing  to  endure  any  hardship  in  the  pursuit  of  a 
great  object;  while  he  might  even  be  willing,  like  poor  Jean 
Jacques,  to  sit  on  a  billet  of  wood,  write  on  a  three-legged 
table,  and  dine  off  three  onions,  if  thereby  he  might  only 
leave  some  record  of  the  truth ;  yet,  even  if  the  woman  he 
married  should  not  only  be  willing  but  glad  to  share  such 
fortune  with  him,  he  could  never  consent  to  it  on  her  account. 
He  would  sooner  renounce  his  own  ambition  and  devote  him 
self  to  getting  the  ordinary  comforts  of  life,  hoping,  the  while, 
like  so  many  before  him,  that  his  son  might  live  to  fulfil  the 
destiny  of  which  adverse  fate  had  thwarted  him.  Then  there 
was  the  question  of  children.  And  while  it  might  be  very 
well  for  him  to  burn  his  last  chair  and  sit  on  a  oillet  of  wood 
— though  why  Jean  Jacques  should  burn  the  chair  and  sit  on 
the  billet  of  wood,  rather  than  burn  the  billet  of  wood  and 
sit  on  the  chair,  always  has  been  a  mystery  to  me ;  but  I 
reckon  it  was  because  the  chair  had  three  legs  broken  off  and 
the  bottom  out — it  would  not  be  so  well  for  Miss  Holmes  to 
ask  her  company  into  a  parlor  with  only  a  billet  of  wood  for 
furniture,  even  though  there  should  be  scattered  about  here 
and  there  some  manuscript  pages  of  a  Contrat  Social.  Better 
even  a  cottage  piano,  a  couple  of  divans,  and  cane-bottom 
chairs. 

Such  were  the  extreme  cases  that  now  occiirred  to  him. 
As  for  the  ten  thousand  petty  annoyances  much  morejikely 
to  occur  in  practice,  he  never  thought  of  them  at  all.  Mira- 
beau  was  reasoning  about  marriage  in  the  abstract,  trying  not 
to  think  of  any  particular  woman  at  all.  He  was  trying  to 
recall  to-night  all  the  philosophy  upon  this  subject  he  had 
ever  learned.  He  thought  that  marriage  was  a  thing  that 
could  not  well  be  undone ;  for  even  if  he  had  by  any  possi 
bility  ever  been  willing  to  think  of  availing  himself  of  its 
provisions,  he  was  entirely  ignorant  of  an  elegant  law  they 


ELKTON.  53 

have  in  the  State  of  Tennessee,  to  wit :  "  If  any  married  man, 
not  a  citizen  of  Tennessee,  shall  wish  to  remove  into  said 
State,  and  his  wife  shall  treasonably,  fraudulently,  viciously, 
and  feloniously  refuse  to  cleave  unto  him  and  follow  him  even 
into  said  State,  then,  and  in  that  case,  said  married  man  may 
come,  proceed,  march,  locomote,  or  otherwise  get  himself  into 
said  State  anyhow,  and  the  refusal  of  the  wife  to  cleave  unto 
him  and  follow  him  into  said  State  shall  be  good  and  sufficient 
ground  for  divorce."  This  is  the  standing  bid  which  that  noble 
State  offers  for  immigration ;  only  requiring  that  the  immi 
grant  shall  be  shrewd  enough — and  one  would  think  it  took 
precious  little  shrewdness — to  conceal  himself  for  a  season 
among  the  fastnesses  of  her  mountains  and  country  news 
papers. 

This  was  the  first  night  in  many  that  Mirabeau  had  lain 
awake  thinking  of  anything  but  his  political  projects.  But  he 
lay  awake  a  long  time  to-night.  And  when  he  went  to  sleep 
his  thoughts,  like  the  violet  of  the  spectrum,  gliding  into  the 
invisible  lavender  rays,  only  faded  away  into  dreams  of  a  little 
brown  woman  with  a  pair  of  great  dark  eyes,  the  like  of  which 
he  had  not  met  with  before.  But  what  did  the  little  brown 
woman  with  the  deep  eyes  think  ?  There  was  just  a  per 
ceptible  wish  on  her  part  that  the  morrow,  when  they  would 
go  upon  Mount  Yonah  together,  would  come  on.  First  thing 
in  the  morning,  though,  Mirabeau  was  to  ride  with  Robert  up 
the  valley  towards  the  headwaters  of  the  river. 


54  QA   IRA. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Black  eyes  you  have  left,  yon  say ; 

Blue  eyes  fail  to  draw  you ; 

Yet  you  seem  more  rapt  to-day 

Than  of  old  we  saw  you." 

THE  next  day  they  went  to  Mount  Yonah.  It  is  the 
testimony  of  travellers  that  the  grandest  views  in  the  world 
are  to  be  had  from  the  top  of  this  famous  mountain.  The 
views  from  the  high  mountains  of  Europe  and  the  North  are 
generally  obstructed  by  mists  or  cloud.  But  from  Yonah, 
which  stands  like  a  solemn  sentinel  at  the  entrance  to  Georgia's 
Egeria,  the  atmosphere  is  clear,  and  soft  as  the  air  of  Italy. 
The  mountain  is  of  granite,  and  stands  in  solitary  grandeur, 
as  if  scorning  the  companionship  of  the  baser  earth.  Over 
about  one-fourth  of  the  horizon  you  see  a  vast  plain,  stretch 
ing  away  across  Carolina  and  a  part  of  Georgia  to  the  Atlantic 
ocean.  Over  the  remaining  three-quarters  is  a  perfect  world 
of  mountains.  Towards  the  north  the  view  is  grand  in  the 
extreme.  You  may  count  as  many  as  a  score  of  ranges  of 
mountains,  rising  one  above  another,  until  the  last  seems  to 
fade  away  into  an  unbroken  line  of  cloud.  One  can  imagine 
with  what  wonder  and  awe  De  Soto  and  his  followers  must 
have  witnessed  this  scene.  Every  vestige  of  Nacoochee  Town, 
save  a  mound  here  and  there,  is  gone.  Nacoochee,  queen  of 
the  valley,  has  vanished  with  her  maidens. 

"  The  mountain  echoes  catch  no  more  the  strain 
Of  their  wild  Indian  lays  at  evening's  wane ; 
No  more,  where  rustling  branches  intertwine, 
They  pluck  the  jasmine  flowers,  or  break  the  caue 


ELKTON.  55 

Beside  the  marshy  stream,  or  from  the  vine 

Shake  down,  in  purple  showers,  the  luscious  muscadine." 

The  El  Dorado  of  the  Indian  has  become  the  Eden  of  the 
white  man.  But  looking  beyond  the  valley,  the  view  is  just 
the  same  as  beheld  by  the  Spaniard  near  three  centuries  ago. 
In  all  the  world  of  mountains  there  is  not  a  single  evidence 
of  habitation  that  meets  the  vision.  No  spire  gleams  in  the 
sun  above,  nor  castle  or  ancient  tower  peeps  from  among  the 
giant  oaks.  There  is  nothing  to  remind  you  that  human 
hearts  are  throbbing  in  the  thousand  valleys  below.  Nothing 
can  be  more  impressive  than  the  silence  which  reigns  over 
these  mountains  when  the  shadow  of  the  evening  twilight 
drops  suddenly  upon  the  scene. 

"  I  love  to  come  to  this  mountain,"  said  Marian  to  Mira- 
beau,  while  Robert  and  Betty  Broughton  had  gone  on  before  to 
the  liberty-pole,  planted  many  years  ago  on  a  Fourth  of  July 
celebration ;  "  I  love  to  come  to  this  mountain,  because  it 
seems  so  solitary  and  lonely." 

"  I  wish  it  would  teach  me  to  look  so  solitary  and 
lonely." 

"  That  would  be  too  bad,  unless  we  had  a  perpetual  leap- 
year." 

"  No  ;  for  in  this  case  the  mountain  would  be  glad  to  go 
to  Mahomet." 

"  Well,  only  wait,  say  a  score  or  two  of  years,  and  you 
may  not  need  to  be  taught  to  look  as  solitary  and  lonely  as 
old  Yonah." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  am  beginning  to  fear." 

"  .Beginning  to  fear  !  Let  me  see.  One  takes  you  to  be 
about  the  meridian,  and  just  now  beginning  to  fear?  " 

"  Yes ;  since  the  last  rays  of  sunset  played  upon  this  moun 
tain.  One  does  not  fear  anything  and  wish  to  avoid  it  until 
one  sees  some  thing  better." 


56  gA  IRA. 

"  What  a  beautiful  lake  this  must  have  been  before  the 
waters  cut  their  way  through, the  mountains  yonder." 

"  Your  father  says  he  is  thinking  of  putting  a  dam  across 
where  the  river  breaks  through,  so  as  to  irrigate  the  whole 
valley.  You  may  then  restore  the  lake  at  pleasure." 

"  We  should  have  a  little  woodland  Venice,  away  over 
here  among  the  mountains  of  Georgia." 

They  lunched  in  the  bridal  chamber  of  the  Indian  lovers, 
and  drank  from  the  spring  of  pure  crystal  water  that  gushes 
from  a  fissure  in  the  granite  floor.  They  visited  the  preci 
pice,  a  thousand  feet  high,  over  which  the  daring  Indian 
lover  was  hurled,  and  from  which  Nacoochee,  breaking  from 
the  arms  of  her  old  father,  hurled  herself  after  him,  into  the 
gorge  beneath.  And  then  they  went  upon  the  mound  built 
by  the  broken-hearted  father  over  their  grave.  The  mound 
is  now  covered  with  ivy,  rhododendrons,  and  wild-flowers.  A 
solitary  pine  grew  from  the  summit  of  the  mound,  and  from 
its  top,  during  the  war,  was  displayed  a  Confederate  flag. 
The  pine  is  now  blasted  and  dead.  It  went  out  with  the 
Confederacy. 

They  were  driving  slowly  up  the  splendid  avenue  of  pines 
which  leads  to  Mr.  Malcomb's  residence,  when  Marian,  tak 
ing  up  a  remark  of  Mirabeau's  about  the  power  of  the  secret 
societies,  said : 

"  I  heard  Robert  say  you  were  going  to  Europe  soon." 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  going  to  found  some  chapters  of  our  secret 
society  over  there." 

"  Shall  you  be  gone  long  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not  longer  than  five  months." 

"  Then  we  shall  not  see  you  again  at  Elkton.  But  I  hope 
*  we  shall  see  you  at  our  house  in  the  city,  where  we  are  going 
soon.  How  long  before  you  go  ?  " 

"  In  two  weeks — if  at  all." 


ELKTON.  57 

"  Why  do  you  say,  if  at  all  ?  " 

"  Because  you  hope  to  see  me  at  your  home  in  the  city." 

"I  mean  when  you  return." 

"  Then  I  shall  try  to  make  the  five  months  three." 

"  Then  you  will  not  go  to  Athens  and  the  East  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  shall  only  go  to  Paris,  Berlin,  St.  Petersburg,  and 
London.  I  shall  not  have  time  to  go  even  to  Rome.  1  do 
not  care  especially  to  go  there  either.  A  good  many  years 
ago,  when  I  read  Lamartine's  Pilgrimage,  I  thought  I  should 
wish  to  go  over  the  same  ground  with  the  poet.  And  I 
do  not  say  that  I  should  not  like  greatly  to  do  so  now ; 
only  there  is  too  much  to  be  done  here  in  our  own  coun 
try.  All  that  such  a  pilgrimage  could  do  would  be  to 
afford  myself  pleasure.  I  think  it  would  be  wrong  to  spend 
months,  perhaps  years,  wandering  over  the  East,  gazing  and 
wondering  at  the  ancient  ruins,  simply  for  one's  own  grati 
fication." 

"  But  why  need  you  gaze  and  wonder,  as  you  say,  simply 
for  your  own  gratification  ?  " 

"  What  else  should  I  do  ?  " 

"  Write  a  book." 

"  Nobody  would  read  it." 

*'  I  would." 

"  You  would  read  it  out  of  sympathy,  because  nobody  else 
read  it." 

"  What  impudence  !  You  think  I  like  you  already  better 
than  I  should  like  your  book  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  very  miserable  if  you  don't  like  me  better  than 
any  book  written  upon  this  subject  ought  to  be  liked.  But 
I  am  going  to  write  a  book  when  I  get  back  that  I  hope  you 
will  like,  not  better  than  its  author,  though." 

"  I  don't  promise,  because  it  might  be  a  very  good  book." 

"  I  shall  make  it  as  poor  as  can  be." 


58  gA  IRA. 

"  If  you  do,  it  will  give  me  a  poor  opinion  of  the  author." 

"  How  shall  I  make  it  ?  " 

"  As  you  like  it.     But  what  is  to  be  the  name  of  it  ?  " 

"  '  Jefferson  Davis  and  His  Friends.'  " 

"  An  historical  novel.  That  is  a  magnificent  subject.  Are 
you  not  afraid  somebody  will  steal  the  subject  from  you." 

"  Yes ;  I  shall  begin  it  as  soon  as  I  get  back." 

"  I  am  impatient  to  read  it." 

"  I  will  begin  it  to-night." 

"  Are  you  two  ever  going  to  get  to  the  gate  ?  "  said  Robert, 
who  had  been  to  carry  Betty  Broughton  home,  and  came  up 
at  this  moment. 

This  was  Mirabeau's  last  night  at  "  Elkton."  His  thoughts 
had  become  sadly  deranged  and  perplexed  since  he  came  here 
only  a  few  days  ago.  And  the  disturbing  element  was,  of 
course,  Marian  Malcomb.  As  we  have  seen,  he  had  no  notion 
of  finding  himself  in  love.  If  he  ever  married  at  all,  it  must 
be  several,  nay,  it  must  be,  probably,  many  years  hence. 
He  was  young,  poor,  and  ambitious.  He  was  bent  on  mak 
ing  a  name  for  himself  that  the  world  should  learn  to  pro 
nounce.  He  believed  in  the  maxim  that  "  A  man  can  do  what 
ever  he  wills  to  do."  And  he  often  thought  of  what  the  "  old 
doctor  "  said  to  him  one  day  :  "  Make  yourself,  my  son,  in 
dispensable  to  the  world  ;  and  the  world  will  find  you,  and 
honor  you  too."  Afterwards,  when  he  had  made  his  name 
and  fortune,  it  might  do  to  think  about  getting  a  wife ;  but 
not  now. 

Still,  even  in  thinking  negatively  of  the  subject,  Mirabeau 
Holmes  had  almost  unconsciously  set  up  in  his  mind  an 
image  of  the  woman  he  thought  he  could  love,  and  even  wor 
ship,  if  some  time  in  the  distant  future  he  should  come  up 
with  her.  But  how  were  the  stars  that  presided  over  his 
destiny  to  know  whitherward  to  guide  him  ?  How  were  they 


ELKTON.  59 

to  know  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  never  to  come  across 
this  ideal  woman  before  he  was  thirty-five,  or  perhaps  forty  ? 
But  they  knew  that  Marian  Malcomb  was  at  "  Elkton ;  "  for 
many  a  time  they  had  danced  in  at  her  vine-latticed  window  ; 
or  struggled  through  the  high  overarching  branches  to  fro 
lic  in  her  loosened  hair  as  she  walked  in  the  great  avenue  of 
pines.  And  they  knew  that  this  was  the  very  woman.  And 
lo  !  Mirabeau  believed  as  much  himself.  The  ideal  was  em 
bodied  before  him.  The  vision  had  become  a  living,  moving 
reality.  He  said  to  himself,  this  is  the  woman  I  would  have 
chosen  if  I  had  intended  to  marry ;  this  is  the  woman  that 
would  thoroughly  sympathize  with  me,  and  I  with  her ;  this 
is  the  woman  that  I  could  love,  even  worship.  And  when 
a  man  has  said  this  much,  it  is  observed,  his  remaining  single 
will  usually  depend  upon  her  resolution  rather  than  his. 

But  then  a  new  idea  occurred  to  Mirabeau  this  last  night 
of  his  at  "  Elkton  :  "  his  poverty.  He  could  not  take  a  wife 
even  if  he  would.  But  the  woman — Mirabeau  had  already 
learned  to  use  the  word  woman  often,  as  preferable  to  lady, 
which  latter  always  reminded  him  of  copper-plate  pictures  in 
old  magazines — who  had  called  forth  these  reflections,  and 
who  was  at  this  very  moment  viewing  the  same  subject  from 
quite  a  different  angle,  was,  fortunately  for  herself  may 
be,  maybe  unfortunately  for  this  Mirabeau,  wealthy.  But 
whether  this  circumstance  of  poverty  on  one  side,  and  wealth 
on  the  other,  was  fortunate  or  unfortunate  for  one  or  for 
both  of  these  two  people,  whose  lives  inevitable  fate  had 
now  brought  within  the  sphere  of  mutual  effect,  where  each 
should  exert  an  influence  over  the  other  for  good  or  for  ill, 
is  a  matter  purely  of  opinion,  on  which  I  shall  leave  the 
reader  to  form,  after  reading  their  history,  his  own  conclu 
sions.  But  whatever  the  reader  may  think,  it  was  all  settled 
with  this  Mirabeau.  He  closed  his  eyes  to  go  to  sleep  ;  he 


60  £A   IRA. 

saw  clearly — maybe  he  only  thought  he  saw  clearly — the  end 
of  the  whole  business.  He  had  not  thought  of  this  subject 
for  a  long  time;  he  would  not  think  of  it  again.  And  if 
there  was  a  perceptible  tinge  of  regret  in  this  last  thought, 
it  only  shows  that  this  man  was  getting  upon  exceedingly  dan 
gerous  ground.  It  indicated  a  conflict  between  feeling  and 
purpose.  Who  can  tell  where  it  will  end  ?  Manifestly,  the 
man  was  not  out  of  danger  here.  For  then  he  thought 
again,  Am  I  to  go  to  work  to  make  a  fortune  for  this  special 
purpose  ?  By  that  time  the  best  part  of  my  life  may  be 
gone.  Besides, — and  he  was  surprised,  even  indignant,  at 
himself, — this  would  thwart  the  whole  scheme  of  my  life. 
[f  we  could  just  reverse  things — and  here  he  turned  himself 
over  in  bed,  as  if  to  give  fortune  some  feeble  notion  of  how 
easy  a  matter  it  was  to  reverse  things.  One  thing  is  settled : 
I  will  leave  this  place  in  the  morning,  and  hereafter  keep 
clear  of  it. 

Meanwhile  Marian  Malcomb,  too,  was  spinning  away  from 
her  own  consciousness  upon  the  web  of  the  future.  Mira- 
beau  Holmes  was  one  of  the  very  few  men  whose  University 
reputation  had  extended  over  the  whole  State.  In  fact  he 
was  well  known  as  a  young  man  of  the  finest  abilities,  and  a 
brilliant  future  was  already  predicted  for  him.  And  women, 
are  observed  to  have  a  rare  intuitive,  perceptive  power,  espe 
cially  in  matters  of  love.  It  would  have  been  curious  to 
observe  the  thoughts  of  these  two  that  night  as  they  went 
scampering  forth  out  of  their  windows,  each  troup  invisible 
to  the  other,  to  be  jotted  down  on  opposite  pages  by  Destiny, 
standing  by.  It  reminds  one  of  a  game  they  have,  called 
Vexation,  in  which  one  writes  a  question  or  a  sentiment  on  a 
slip  of  paper,  and  another,  without  seeing  what  is  written, 
writes  an  answer  on  the  opposite"  side ;  while  still  a  third 
reads  them  both. 


ELKTON.  61 

"Now  that  you  have  seen  him,  what  do  you  think  of 
Holmes  ?  "  said  Robert  Malcomb  to  his  sister  the  afternoon 
after  Mirabeau  left  "  Elkton."  Now,  if  Marian  Malcomb  had 
been  the  "  average  young  lady,"  she  would,  beyond  all  doubt, 
have  made  one  of  these  two  answers :  "  Oh,  I'm  siire  I  don't 
know ;  I  haven't  thought  of  him  at  all.  I  guess  he  is  like 
other  young  men — a  little  more  vain,  perhaps ;  "  or,  "  He's 
nice !  Do  you  know,  I  think  he  has  an  air  quite  distin~ 
gue."  But,  not  to  complicate  matters,  seeing  that  it  was 
just  as  it  was,  and  could  not  have  been  any  other  way,  that 
Marian  Malcomb  was  just  herself,  and  could  not  have  been, 
any  other  girl,  even  if  it  had  been  desirable,  which  it  was 
not,  it  may  be  well  enough  to  let  her  answer  for  herself, 
touching  a  matter,  of  which  however  ignorant  she  might  be 
at  the  time,  was  likely  not  to  be  without  an  influence  upon 
her  own  life. 

"  I  rather  like  him,  I  believe  j  or  maybe  it  would  be  better 
to  say,  he  interests  me." 

"  Why  does  he  interest  you  ?  You  know  you  often  ask 
me  for  the  reasons  of  things." 

"  But  I  don't  know  that  I  am  as  clear  as  I  expect  you  to 
be.  I  svippose  it  is  because  he  talks  upon  interesting  sub 
jects,  and  has  his  own  way  of  looking  at  things." 

"  Just  so.  He  saw  you  were  better  than  most  women, 
flattered  you  accordingly,  and  you  give  him  credit  for  it.  He 
talked  about  art  and  metaphysics ;  but  he  never  talks  about 
much  else  to  people  he  cares  for,  unless  he  gets  off  upon  his 
political  hobby." 

"  Then  he  was  not  so  complimentary.  He  said  very  little 
about  books ;  I  wish  he  had  said  more.  He  reminds  me 
of  one  of  those  men  that  the  '  old  doctor '  used  to  tell 
you  all  were  the  most  interesting :  you  are  certain  they 
keep  back  a  great  deal  more  than  they  tell.  Mr.  Holmes 


62  QA    IE  A. 

talks  about  things  of  interest,  such  as  I  would  talk  to  you 
about." 

"  Himself,  for  example  ?  That  is  what  you  are  talking  to 
me  about  now." 

"  I  am  not  talking  to  you ;  you  are  talking  to  me.  I  am 
only  answering  your  questions." 

"  Well,  Holmes  is  an  interesting*  fellow.  But  I  fear — 
mind  you,  I  am  not  certain — that  he  appears  much  more  so 
than  he  really  deserves,  because  he  has  a  way  of  putting 
things." 

"  What  is  he  going  to  do  ?  " 

"That's  the  question.  His  course  is  more  difficult  to  cal 
culate  than  was  that  of  a  comet  to  our  forefathers.  For 
they  might  calculate  with  certainty  that  the  comet  would 
not  go  outside  of  the  universe ;  but  I  should  not  say  so  much 
of  Mirabeau  Holmes.  In  college  he  had  stronger  friends 
and  bitterer  enemies  than  any  man  there.  He  never  would 
be  neutral.  He  was  sui-e  to  be  the  leader  of  his  party.  Some 
thought  him  a  genius ;  others  thought,  or  pretended  to  think, 
him  a  vagarist.  Still,  while  he  embraced  'an  idea'  with 
ardor,  he  treated  people  with  cold  reserve.  When  asked  by 
his  friends  why  he  did  not  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  such 
a  man,  he  would  say :  '  I  have  not  the  slightest  notion  he  has 
anything  to  say  I  want  to  hear;'  or,  'What  does  he  know 
that  will  be  worth  my  while  to  be  bored  two  hours  to  hear?' 
As  for  what  he  intends  to  do,  that  is  as  uncertain  now  as 
then.  Once,  I  think,  he  intended  to  be  a  philosopher :  he 
read  everything  from  Plato  down.  Then  he  thought  of 
studying  law,  but  the  'old  doctor,'  who  knew  him  better 
than  anybody  else,  advised  him  so  strongly  against  it  that  he 
gave  it  up.  The  'old  doctor'  looks  to  his  future  with  much 
interest,  and,  I  think,  has  great  hopes  of  him.  Just  now  he 
is  entirely  carried  away  with  this  political  hobby  of  his.  I 


ELKTON.  63 

have  not  a  doubt  but  he  firmly  believes  in  the  resurrection 
of  the  Confederacy,  and  himself  expects  some  day  to  be 
president  of  it.  But  if  Jeff'  Davis  was  living,  and  was  not 
made  first  president,  he  would  not  consider  it  more  than 
half  a  triumph.  But  there  is  no  telling  what  he  will  think 
when  he  gets  back  from  Europe.  He  despises  the  very  word 
*  consistency.'  He  would  not  surprise  me  by  going  off  after 
woman's  rights,  socialism,  and  even  atheism.  Did  he  tell 
you  about  that  wild  scheme  of  his  for  making-cotton  king, 
and  bankrupting  the  government  ?  " 

"  No  ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  wants  all  the  cotton  planters  to  enter  into  a 
great  corporation.  They  are  to  have  a  bank,  and  issue  bills  of 
credit.  They  are  to  build  warehouses  at  the  great  southern 
seaports,  in  which  the  cotton  is  to  be  stored  until  the  foreign 
vessels  come  after  it,  and  pay  the  price  in  gold  fixed  by  the 
authorities  of  the  corporation.  The  Agricultural  Congress 
meets  and  fixes  the  price  of  the  several  grades  of  cotton 
beforehand.  The  planter  sends  a  bale  of  cotton  to  OIIH  of  the 
warehouses ;  they  receive  it,  grade  it,  and  send  him  the 
money  for  it— one  of  their  bank-bills,  payable  in  gold  at  the 
bank.  The  English  merchant  comes,  buys  a  cargo  of  cotton, 
and  pays  the  gold  for  it,  which  is  sent  to  the  vaults  of  the 
bank.  He  says  he  could  stop  all  the  spindles  in  New  Eng 
land,  and  bankrupt  the  Government  in  two  years." 

"  That  is  a  very  large  scheme." 

"  Yes ;   and  as  wild  as  it  is  large." 

Robert  Malcomb,  like  his  father,  was  cool,  calculating,  and 
clear-headed.  He  was  a  good  worker ;  patient,  energetic, 
but  not  likely  to  waste  his  energies.  He  was  a  man  of  pur 
pose,  too,  and  he  had  a  clear  perception  of  what  it  was.  He 
had  calculated  the  distance  of  the  object  to  be  attained,  and 
knew  the  number  of  horse-power  necessary  to  remove  the 


04  gA  IRA. 

obstacles  and  carry  him  to  it.  He  divided  lawyers  into  petti 
foggers,  common,  good,  fine,  and  great.  His  purpose  was  to 
be  a  great  lawyer.  He  looked  upon  the  profession  itself  as 
the  greatest  of  all  professions.  He  regarded  it  as  the  guardian 
of  the  liberties  bequeathed  to  us  by  our  fathers — the  great 
"  conservative  "  power  in  the  state.  It  had  not  occurred  to 
him  how  little  thece  was  in  the  "  institutions  of  the  fathers  " 
at  all  worth  "  conserving."  He  was  a  man  of  purpose;  but 
there  Avas  nothing  vague  and  indefinite  about  his  purpose,  as 
about  that  of  Mirabeau  Holmes.  It  does  not  follow,  though, 
that  he  was  more  likely  to  accomplish  great  things  ;  far  from 
it.  He  was  much  more  sure  to  succeed  ;  but  what  great  thing 
was  there  within  the  limits  he  had  set  ?  What  does  the  great 
est  lawyer,  only  a  lawyer  when  he  dies,  leave  to  humanity  ? 
Nothing. 

But  as  for  this  Mirabeau,  ten  to  one  the  man  would  make 
a  miserable  failure  at  all  points ;  get  himself  into  the  State 
prison  perhaps,  or  maybe  die  in  the  poorhouse.  But  then 
there  was  the  one  other  chance,  and  it  was  worth  much  more 
than  many  smaller  certainties.  He  would  do  something 
great,  or  fail  completely  and  miserably.  I  think  there  was 
small  danger  of  this  man  getting  himself  mixed  up  with 
Sophie  De  Ruffeys,  absolutely  none  of  your  Beatrices  and 
Lauras.  No  danger  here  for  him.  But  it  was  not  impossible 
that  he  should  some  day,  somewhere,  write  a  Contrat  Social 
or  stir  up  a  revolution.  He  had  about  a  ton  of  explosive 
radicalism  in  him.  There  was  also  a  question  of  castles  of 
Ham,  conciergeries,  guillotines,  patent  improved  drops,  and 
what  not,  strangely  mixed  up  with  arches,  columns,  mauso 
leums,  even  Pantheons.  You  might  catch  the  outlines  of 
these  looming  up  darkly,  and  scowling  at  you  from  among 
the  restless  shadows  of  this  man's  horoscope. 

Robert  Malcomb,  clear-headed  as  he  was,  had  not  seen  thus 


ELKTON.  65 

far  into  Mirabeau's  character.  He  hoped  that  lie  might  set 
tle  down  to  some  profession  and  become  eminent  in  it.  Or 
failing  in  this,  that  he  might  turn  out  to  be  a  sort  of  Sir 
James  Mackintosh,  a  man  fitful  and  uncertain,  able  to  dazzle 
but  not  to  illumine ;  a  man  of  large  capacity  but  small  ability  ; 
of  much  learning  and  brilliant  parts,  but  of  so  many  notions 
that  they  interfered  with  and  neutralized  the  force  of  each 
other.  Robert's  private  opinion  was  that  he  ought  to  marry. 
He  thought  that  would,  so  to  speak,  exert  a  certain  cooling 
influence  upon  him.  But  he  would  not  have  liked  very  well 
for  the  second  person  in  this  transaction  to  be  very  near  to 
him.  For  he  was  not  quite  sure  but  what  Mirabeau  would 
be  capable  of  quitting  his  wife  without  a  moment's  notice, 
either  for  the  cloister,  the  Oneida  community,  or  the  State  of 
Tennessee,  which  latter  offers  a  standing  reward  to  all  dis 
contented  husbands. 

"  Well  met,"  said  Fred  Van  Comer,  as  he  shook  the  hand 
of  Mirabeau  Holmes  at  the  Kimball,  in  Atlanta,  the  day  after 
the  latter  left  Elkton  ;  "I  was  just  wishing  I  could  see  you. 
You  must  come  here  to  live." 

"  Why  must  I  come  here  ?  " 

"  Because  everybody  else  is  coming.  Clarence  Hall  is  here, 
and  Bramlette,  and  Van  Epps,  and  Otis  Jones,  and  Burgess 
Smith — oh  my  !  everybody  is  already  here  but  you." 

"  I  intend  to  come  when  I  get  back  from  Europe." 

"  Do  you  ?  We  must  go  in  and  drink  a  cocktail  on  that ; 
and  I  will  even  let  you  beat  me  a  game  of  ivory." 

They  played  the  game,  and  were  sitting  comfortably  puffing 
their  cigars,  when  Mirabeau  said: 

"  Fred,  what  do  you  think  of  marriage  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is  the  chief  end  of  life." 

"  Explain." 

"  Explain !     Now,  by  the  rood,  Master  Slender,  you  are 


66  £A    IEA. 

dull.  You  must  be  in  love.  Marriage  is  the  chief  end  of  life 
because  it  is  the  point  where  most  lives  chiefly  end." 

"  Well,  I  grant  you,  according  to  our  notions  of  marriage, 
it  ought  to  lessen  the  number  of  lives  by  half;  seeing  that  two 
lives  are  made  one." 

"  Oh,  in  that  sense,  if  we  only  had  a  few  Solomons  now, 
getting  nine  hundred  into  one  in  no  time,  the  population  of 
the  globe  would  soon  be  reduced  to  unity." 

"  Well,  Pascal  says  that  '  plurality  which  does  not  reduce 
itself  to  unity  is  confusion.'  " 

"  In  that  case  I  suppose  Brigham  Young,  though  only  a 
feeble  imitator  of  the  illustrious  king  of  the  chosen  people,  is 
a  benefactor  of  the  human  race." 

"  I  was  serious." 

"  Were  you  ?  It  was  not  I  that  said  Solomon  got  nine 
hundred  into  one.  I  rather  think  he  got  one  into  nine  hun 
dred — if  there  was  any  blending  of  lives  at  all.  But  you  are 
serious ;  so  will  I  be,  too.  Answer  me  this,  then :  Why  is 
marriage  like  Signor  Launce's  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  Because  it  '  hath  many  nameless  virtues.' " 

"  Indeed,  you  are  stuck  in  love ;  you  make  poetic  answers. 
Now  listen  to  me.  Marriage  is  like  Launce's  milkmaid,  because 
it  hath  more  qualities  than  a  water-spaniel,  '  which  is  much 
in  a  bare  Christian.'  Now,  why  is  it  unlike  the  milkmaid  ?  " 

"  Because  the  milkmaid  was  not  to  be  kissed ;  and  the 
married  maid  is  to  be  kissed." 

"  Good.  But  an  institution  with  so  many  qualities  hath 
more  reasons  than  one.  Look  you,  here  are  two  more.  They 
are  not  alike  because  the  milkmaid's  vices  followed  close  at 
the  heels  of  her  virtues,' while  m  marriage  the  virtues  follow 
close  at  the  heels  of  the  vices,  where  they  are  in  continual 
danger  of  being  trod  on.  Again,  the  milkmaid  had  no  teeth ; 
but  I  can  tell  you  marriage  hath  teeth  ;  and,  for  that  matter, 


ELKTON,  67 

nails  too ;  and,  for  that  matter,  sometimes  a  full  head  of  hair 

too — in  the  beginning ;  and  " 

"  Stop  there ;  I'll  not  have  anything  to  do  with  it." 
Mirabeau  had  not  been  away  from  "  Elkton "  two  days 
before  he  repented  of  his  resolution  "  to  keep  clear  of  that 
place  hereafter."  In  less  than  two  weeks  he  was  there  again, 
fully  determined  to  declare  his  love  to  Marian,  whatever  might 
happen  in  the  future.  And  this  resolution  he  carried  out  in 
the  most  calm  and  deliberate  manner — a  manner  which  he  had 
for  some  time  been  trying  to  school  himself  into.  He  simply 
declared  his  love  to  her,  and  his  intention  to  ask  her  to  marry 
him  when  she  knew  him  better.  And  thus  he  committed  a 
grievous  mistake.  This  was  the  second  time  he  had  ever  seen 
Marian  Malcomb ;  and  yet  here  he  was  declaring  to  her  a  deli 
berate  intention  to  court  her  some  time  in  the  future  !  That 
will  not  do  -for  this  country.  For  here,  as  in  England,  before 
one  marries,  it  is  necessary,  as  M.  Taine  says,  "  to  feel  a 
passion."  Marian  Malcomb  had  already  begun  to  like  this 
man ;  but  now,  she  was  not  at  all  certain  that  he  was  not  a 
heartless  hypocrite.  Possibly  he  had  sat  in  his  office  and  cast 
his  eye  deliberately  about  among  the  women  he  considered 
worthy  of  his  notice,  and  after  weighing  many  in  the  balance 
had  concluded  that  she  was  the  best  match  he  knew,  and  had 
come  straight  to  her,  without  having  seen  her  before,  predeter 
mined  to  declare  his  love  and  ask  her  to  marry  him.  Her 
higher  feelings  were  outraged,  and  she  was  dissatisfied  with 
herself  not  only  for  allowing  herself  to  be  deceived  in  her 
estimate  of  his  character,  but  because  she  was  conscious  of 
already  liking  him  better  than  any  man  she  knew.  And 
here  she  placed  a  very  dangerous  barrier  between  herself  and 
him.  See  what  it  is  a  woman  must  do,  after  this,  before  the 
man  can  hope  to  be  successful  in  his  suit :  she  must  confess  to 
herself  not  only  that  she  has  deceived  herself  in  a  matter  of 


68  <JA  ERA. 

judgment,  but  that  sho  has  greatly  "wronged  another,  and  that 
other  the  very  last  man  she  ought  to  have  wronged,  namely, 
the  man  that  loved  her.  It  needs  no  very  great  knowledge 
of  the  human  mind,  I  think,  to  appreciate  how  difficult  a 
matter  it  is  for  a  woman  to  do  this.  Moreover,  a  woman, 
coming  to  this  conclusion,  deals  most  unjustly  with  herself; 
for  being  already  decided  to  be  distrustful,  she  sees  through 
a  false  medium,  and  may  even  degrade  the  highest  expression 
of  sentiment  into  acting  able  to  be  detected  by  a  girl  of 
eighteen. 

With  Mirabeau  Holmes  the  case  was  this  :  he  did  not  feel 
that  Marian  Malcomb  was  a  stranger  to  him.  He  simply  trans 
ferred  his  acquaintance  from  the  ideal  he  had  set  up  in  his  own 
mind  to  the  reality  before  him.  And  so,  instead  of  regarding 
her  as  a  woman  whom  he  had  met  only  yesterday,  he  saw 
in  her  the  woman  he  had  loved,  but  hardly  thought  to  find. 
We  are  all  observed  to  carry  about  with  us  a  large  amount 
of  disposable  passion ;  and  when  this  passion  happens  to  be 
in  an  ozonic  state  its  possessor  is  apt  to  fall  down  and  wor 
ship  the  first  object  which  his  fancy  can  fashion  into  an  idol. 
But  as  for  Mirabeau,  while  he  had  a  great  amount  of  love  and 
worship  to  bestow  upon  some  woman,  he  had  a  clear  percep 
tion  of  his  ideal,  and  was  so  enamoured  of  it  that  he  would 
have  regarded  himself  as  no  better  than  a  heathen  and  an  in 
fidel  if  he  had  thoxight  it  possible  for  him  to  bestow  it  upon 
any  other  than  the  embodiment  of  this  same  ideal.  Alto 
gether,  courtship  between  these  two  persons,  for  the  future, 
had  become  needlessly  complicated,  and  for  Mirabeau  the 
case  was  manifestly  dangerous. 

Mirabeau  returned  to  the  city  the  night  before  he  was  to 
leave  for  Europe.  James  Arno't,  surrounded  by  some  two 
dozen  officers,  on  the  second  floor  of  an  old  brick  building  in 
the  western  portion  of  the  city,  was  listening  to  some  reports. 


ELKTON.  69 

If  Mirabeau  had  only  heard  some  of  these  reports,  he  would 
have  deferred  his  trip  to  Europe.  I  think  many  a  swamp 
and  forest  would  have  stood  aghast  at  the  recital  of  deeds 
which  had  been  enacted  in  their  very  midst.  But  when  Mir- 
abeau  entered,  the  meeting  was  at  once  adjourned,  and  these 
two  walked  to  the  Kimball  together,  but  they  did  not  walk 
arm  in  arm.  It  was  late  that  night  when  they  retired.  Mir- 
abeau,  who  was  much  interested  in  his  companion,  proposed 
that  they  should  occupy  the  same  room  ;  but  Arnot  was  con 
fused,  blushed,  and  made  some  excuse.  They  bade  each  other 
good-bye  that  night. 

"  Some  years  ago,"  said  Arnot,  "  I  travelled  over  portions 
of  Europe  myself;  and  I  almost  wish  it  was  so  now  that  I 
could  be  your  companion."  This  was  said  in  a  tone  so  low, 
and  so  full  of  sadness,  with  just  a  shade  of  mockery,  that 
Mirabeau  was  startled.  He  looked  quickly  and  searchingly 
into  Arnot's  face,  and  saw  the  same  blush  that  he  had  noticed 
some  moments  before.  He  afterwards  remembered  that  tone 
so  full  of  sadness  and  self-mockery.  In  a  moment  Arnot's 
face  had  resumed  its  frozen  stillness. 

Mirabeau  did  not  start  to  Europe  Doxt  moining.  He  had 
not  left  his  room  when  he  was  brought  a  telegram  summon- 
ing  him  to  his  home  at  "  Ashton." 


asoofc  2. 

soisr. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  The  night  shall  bo  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cai-es  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  up  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  silently  steal  away. 

"  Forgive  me,  my  child !    Keproach  not  thy  unhappy  father,  whose  fondest  hopes 
have  proved  visionary." 

— SCHILLEB,  The  Robbers. 

IF  the  reader  is  of  an  inquiring  turn  of  mind,  which 
.surely  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt,  except  the  very  general 
one  that  this  Republic,  counting  all,  without  distinction  of 
race,  color,  previous  or  present  condition  of  servitude — pre 
vious  condition  of  servitude  referring  to  such  Africans  and 
mongrels  as  the  general  march  of  events,  slightly  aided  by 
Lincoln's  Proclamation,  set  free,  and  present  condition  of 
servitude  referring  to  the  female  half  of  the  American  peo 
ple,  also  soon  destined  to  be  set  free  by  the  general  march  of 
events,  somewhat  hastened,  I  hope,  by  Henry  Wilson  and 
others — has  six  millions  of  inhabitants  who  can  neither  read 
nor  write,  and  thirty  odd  millions  more  who  are  biit  little 
better  off,  he  will  doubtless  inquire  why  I  have  written  the 
title  of  this  book  "  Daughter  and  Son,"  instead  of  "  Son  and 


72  gA  IRA. 

Daughter."  Surely  the  latter  is  the  orthodox  arrangement. 
I  defy  any  man — except,  indeed,  one  profoundly  versed  in 
typology,  with  whom  all  things  are  possible — to  point  to  a 
single  place  where  it  is  ever  hinted  that  Abraham,  Isaac, 
Jacob — who  cheated  his  brother  out  of  his  birthright  in  order 
to  be  made  head  of  the  chosen  people — or  any  patriarch  or 
prophet  whatever,  ever  "  begat  daughters  and  sons."  They 
"  begat  sons  and  daughters — sons  and  daughters  begat  they 
them."  And  this  is  what  proves  the  humanity  of  that  race, 
that  they  invariably  "  begat  sons  and  daughters,"  just  like 
other  people.  But  I  think  we  shall  not  find  even  in  profane 
history  any  precedent  whatever  to  warrant  the  conferring 
of  such  distinction  upon  women  as  giving  more  prominence 
to  the  daughter  than  to  the  son.  It  is  almost  as  bad  as  if 
one  had  said  "  wife  and  husband."  Doubtless  the  whole  race 
of  forked  radishes  with  breeches  on  will  feel  highly  indig 
nant.  Manifestly  the  publisher  of  this  book,  if  he  love  him 
self,  had  best  look  to  his  ears.  For  is  it  not  written  that 
man  is  the  "  head  of  the  woman "  ?  And  is  it  not  plainly 
declared  in  the  law-books,  with  pains  and  penalties  duly 
announced,  that  "  the  woman  shall  be  subject  to  the  man  "  ? 
Clearly  there  must  be  some  reason  for  this  kind  of  proceed 
ing,  right  in  the  face,  as  it  were,  of  the  law  and  gospel.  But 
however  it  may  have  been  among  the  patriarchs,  or  among 
the  Greeks,  where,  we  are  casually  informed  by  the  historian, 
"  women  were  regarded  simply  as  furniture  ;  "  or  among  the 
Romans,  where  they  were  so  clearly  reckoned  as  personal 
property  that  the  use  and  possession  of  them  for  one  year 
gave  the  possessor  a  good  title  to  them ;  in  this  book  it  may 
be  that  the  daughter  is  to  play-a  more  important  part  than 
the  son.  But  however  that  may  be,  it  is  not  important  that 
I  should  give  any  reason  but  this,  that  the  last  shall  be  first, 
and  the  first  last. 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  73 

There  was  a  hall  at  Mrs.  Walton's.  Stop  a  moment,  dear 
reader.  Do  not  skip  ten  pages  just  here.  I  am  not  going  to 
treat  you  to  a  description  of  "  a  girl's  first  ball."  All  balls 
are  some  girl's  "  first  ball."  I  doubt  not  you  have  read  many 
descriptions  of  "  a  girl's  first  ball."  They  are  all  alike.  If 
you  have  nothing  else  to  do  for  half  an  hour  but  to  read  a 
description  of  a  ball,  pray  go  into  the  garden  and  hoe  a  cou 
ple  of  rows  of  potatoes  or  cabbages.  Or,  if  you  have  abso 
lutely  nothing  to  do,  why  then,  though  few  things  could  be 
more  unprofitable,  just  close  the  book,  ditto  your  eyes,  and 
reflect  for  a  few  moments  upon  the  mutability  of  all  human 
affairs— except  "  a  girl's  first  ball."  Technically  speaking, 
this  was  not  "  a  girl's  first  ball ;  "  it  was  a  ball  given  young 
George  Walton  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  a  foreign  uni 
versity.  George  Walton  was  the  youngest  child  of  Mr. 
Walton.  Mrs.  Walton  was,  in  terms  of  the  statute,  the 
mother  of  him.  In  him  had  already  happened  that  oft- 
repeated  phenomenon,  the  centering  of  a  father's  hopes.  Not 
that  Mr.  Walton  had  no  other  children ;  he  had  three  others, 
two  sons  and  a  daughter.  The  oldest  son  was  living,  and  was 
here  to-night ;  the  other  son  was  dead  ;  and  the  daughter  was 
also — dead.  Mr.  Walton's  hopes  now  rested  in  his  youngest 
child,  George,  a  youth  of  some  nineteen  years,  of  great  prom 
ise  and  expectations.  Mr.  Walton,  like  many  men  before 
him  and  after  him,  had  set  out  in  life  with  an  ambition  to  do 
great  things.  And  he  had  been  more  successful  than  most 
men  in  this,  that  he  had  learned  earlier  than  most  men  to 
accept  the  inevitable.  He  remembered  the  Spanish  proverb, 
"  Since  we  cannot  get  what  we  like,  we  must  try  to  like 
what  we  can  get."  His  ambition  was  not  lost,  but  only 
transferred.  He  could  make  money ;  and  he  determined  to 
make  more  than  anybody  else.  His  ambition  for  fame  he 
had  hoped  to  see  realized  in  his  oldest  son.  Any  one  who 


1 £A   IRA. 

chooses,  provided  he  has  some  little  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  may  learn  from  the  census  reports  of  that  year  time 
there  was  something  over  a  million  of  parents  in  this  Repub 
lic  who  comforted  themselves  with  similar  hopes.  But  even 
here  Mr.  Walton  again  saw  that  he  was  disappointed.  It  is 
said  that  hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast.  Like 
most  sayings  with  which  Humanity  has  either  flattered  or ' 
comforted  itself,  this  also  is  false.  There  are  many  men,  and 
women  too,  and  you  may  meet  some  of  them  on  the  street,  in 
whom,  if  you  could  ever  achieve  that  utter  impossibility  of 
knowing  their  inmost  being,  the  springs  of  hope  are  long 
since  dried  up  ;  from  which  even  the  tears  that  were  wept  in. 
their  places  are  gone,  leaving  nothing  but  a  hardened  crust 
of  bitter  and  salt.  But  it  was  not  yet  quite  so  with  this 
man.  His  oldest  son,  Alf,  had  turned  out  badly.  Of  good 
mind,  good  looks,  not  without  ambition,  and  having  all  the 
advantages  of  wealth,  it  seemed  not  unreasonable  to  indulge 
the  highest  hopes  of  his  future.  He  was  sent  to  a  German 
university,  and  then  travelled  extensively.  All  of  which,  to 
be  sure,  was  a  magnificent  preparation  for  the  part  already 
assigned  him  in  the  programme  of  Destiny — that  he  should 
be  an  accomplished  gambler  and  debauchee.  Mr.  Walton  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  him  long  since.  His  next  son  was  dead. 
His  only  daughter — who  ever  expected  anything  of  a  daugh 
ter  ? — was  also  dead,  or  sunk  out  of  sight. 

Mr.  Walton  was  not  happy  to-night.  Once  during  the 
evening,  as  he  walked  down  the  great  hall  alone,  he  chanced 
to  meet  his  wife  coming  from  her  own  room.  He  saw  in  an 
instant  that  she  had  been  weeping,  and  he  knew  that  at  that 
moment  they  were  thinking  of  the  same  thing.  Neither 
dared  to  speak  to  the  other.  Sfoe  returned  to  the  saloon.  He 
passed  on,  out  of  the  door,  out  of  the  gate,  and  on,  he  knew 
not  whither.  Mr.  Walton  was  thinking  of  another  scene.  It 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  75 

was  in  a  distant  State  ;  but  what  mattered  that  ?  It  was  years 
ago  ;  but  what  mattered  that  ?  What  mattered  it  whether 
it  was  yesterday  or  an  eternity  ago  ?  It  was  there,  in  him 
self.  It  was  a  scene  on  one  of  those  pi-etty  little  wood 
land  lakes,  children  of  the  great  Mississippi,  which  seem  to 
have  rambled  too  far  in  their  chase  after  the  butterflies  among 
the  flowers,  and  got  hemmed  and  caught  among  the  hills. 
There  was  a  ball  upon  the  lake  that  night.  A  great  gondola 
rested  in  the  centre,  and  numbers  of  tiny  shell-shaped  boats 
glided  hither  and  thither,  or  rested  under  the  shade  of  the 
great  forest  trees  that  threw  their  shadows  far  out  upon  the 
silvery  waters.  The  dance  went  on,  and  the  soft  strains  of 
music  rose  and  floated  away  in  the  moonlight.  Mr.  Walton 
sat  down  in  the  shade  of  a  great  oak.  It  was  on  such  a  night 
as  this ;  and  now  he  remembered  that  this  was  the  anniver 
sary  of  the  very  night.  He  bent  his  head  upon  his  knees. 
The  sad  nighi-wind  moaned  as  the  spirit  of  the  music,  and  he 
fell  into  a  stupor  such  as  sometimes  comes  over  us  when,  in 
the  presence  of  a  great  past  sorrow,  we  feel  an  utter,  despair 
ing  helplessness. 

Then  there  came  and  stood  before  him  three  figures  :  one, 
a  beautiful  woman,  her  long  black  hair  falling  loosely  to  her 
waist,  and  a  star  upon  her  forehead — his  own  daughter ;  an 
other,  a  young  man,  almost  a  boy,  tall  and  slender — his  silk 
en-haired  RafFaelle  ;  and  then  a  dark-faced  foreigner,  that 
gazed  steadily  upon  him  with  a  look  so  burning  that  he  in 
voluntarily  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  The  group  came 
towards  him  ;  and  the  beautiful  girl  seemed  to  kneel  before 
him  and  take  his  hand  ;  he  withdrew  it,  and  motioned  them 
away.  The  scene  changed,  and  he  saw  dragged  from  a  river 
and  laid  upon  the  bank  the  inanimate  form  of  a  woman. 
A  baby  was  clasped  in  her  arms,  bound  to  her  bosom  with 
ribbons  and  plaits  of  hair.  Her  rich,  black  tresses  were 


76  QA  IEA. 

fallen  upon  the  ground,  and  the  dripping  water  ran  down  the 
bank  in  small  streams  to  the  river.  From  her  neck  was 
taken  a  small,  curiously- wrought  locket,  in  which  was  found 
crumpled  up  a  tiny  note.  The  words  seemed  to  burn  into  his 
brain :  "  Alone,  alone.  Alone  in  this  great  city,  in  the  wide 
world.  God  himself  has  forsaken  me.  I  have  no  friend  but 
my  misery  ;  that  alone  has  remained  with  me  and  my  child. 
Without  friends — without  money — without  bread.  My 
God  !  Can  it  be  wrong  to  die  when  I  can  do  nothing  else  ? 
For  the  sake  of  my  child,  my  sweet,  innocent  child,  last  night 
I  tried  to  beg.  They  said  she  was  a  rich,  Christian  woman. 
She  made  the  servants  drive  me  away.  "What  I  am  about 
to  do,  for  myself,  is  no  crime ;  but  my  child — God  forgive 
me  !  I  cannot  leave  it  in  the  world  without  a  friend — I  can 
not  go  into  another  world  without  taking  it  with  me — I 
would  be  alone  there.  Father  in  heaven,  if  it  be  a  crime 
that  I  am  now  going  to  commit,  let  the  suffering  of  myself 
and  my  innocent  child  plead  with  Thee  for  forgiveness.  Of 
you,  my  father  and  mother,  I  ask  forgiveness  for  all  the 
trouble  I  have  given  you  ;  and  I  thank  my  God  that  you  arc 
ignorant  of  the  depths  of  your  child's  suffering.  To  that 
other,  if  he  still  lives,  I  would  that  the  sweet  night- wi ad 
might  bear  him  my  message — that  I  love  him  to-night  as  when 
he  pressed  the  first  kiss  of  love  upon  my  forehead.  One  more 
prayer :  as  to-night  my  little  Alberta  shall  go  to  sleep  in  my 
arms,  so  may  we  both  awake  in  the  morning." 

The  scene  changed  again,  and  he  saw  the  dark-faced  for 
eigner  and  another,  in  a  wild  wood,  standing  face  to  face,  a  few 
paces  apart.  He  heard  the  words,  "  ready,"  "  one,"  "  two/' 
"  fire,"  and  two  sharp  reports,  almost  simultaneous,  rang  upon 
the  air.  The  dark  man  stood  still ;  from  the  breast  of  the 
other  he  saw  a  little  whiff  of  smoke  curl  slowly  upward,  and  as 
the  man  fell  forward,  recognizing  his  own  son,  he  attempted 


DAUGHTER  AND   SON.  77 

to  rush  forward  with  a  cry,  and  the  cry  awoke  him.  Mr. 
Walton  looked  around  to  see  if  anybody  was  near.  One  man 
was  passing  by  at  a  little  distance ;  it  was  James  Arnot.  Mr. 
Walton  had  been  dreaming  a  dream  that  was  not  all  a  dream. 
He  looked  at  his  watch  ;  he  had  not  been  here  long.  When 
he  returned  to  the  house,  he  passed  a  couple  of  young  men 
walking  in  the  yard  smoking,  and  heard  snatches  of  their  con 
versation. 

"  Rich  !  No  name  for  it.  They  say  he's  worth  over  a 
million." 

"  And  no  children  but  boys.  If  the  old  cit  just  had  a  gal 
now,  some  happy  nob  might  make  his  jack  there." 

"  But  they  say  he  did  have  a  gal ;  a  stunner — like  that 
hell-bound  brother  in  the  house.  Got  topped  though  by  some 
black-eyed  foreigner — Italian,  I  believe — had  a  baby,  run 
away,  and  got  to  be — what  the  deuce  is  it  the  French  say  ?  " 

"  Fille  de  joie  ?  " 

"No;  not  that." 

"  Nymph  du  pav6  ?  " 

"  That's  it — nymph  du  pave.  No  wonder  she  got  to  be  a 
nymph  du  pave,  if  she  was  any  kin  to  that  child  of  Satan  in  the 
house  there.  By  the  way,  they  say  he's  engaged  to  Ella  Leit- 
ner.  What  per  cent,  would  you  insure  her  for,  for  six  months  ?  " 

"  Not  under  a  hundred,  if  that's  true,  with  commissions 
extra.  I  reckon  it's  not  true,  though.  I  don't  see  how  a 
respectable  woman  could  like  Alf  Walton." 

"  The  deuce  you  don't !  You  know  none  of  us  stand  any 
show  with  him  at  all.  What  if  he  has  brought  about  a  ton  of 
them  to  a  melancholy  end,  as  the  parson  says;  that's  just 
what  they  like.  I  move  we  take  a  few  lessons  from  him. 
He'll  give  'em  if  we  let  him  win  a  score  or  two  of  williams." 

What  principally  struck  you  on  entering  the  saloon  was 
this,  that  here  was  a  Democratic  ball  of  the  first  water.  Here 


18  gA  IRA. 

•were  numerous  young  men,  and  not  a  few  old  ones,  and  pro 
bably  not  three  in  the  room  who  did  not  do  something  for  a 
living.  Here  were  clerks,  young  merchants,  lawyers,  doctors, 
newspaper  reporters,  editors,  politicians,  and  even  two  or 
three  "nobs."  There  was  no  exclusiveness.  Not  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Walton  deserve  any  particular  credit  for  it ;  for 
this  was  the  rule  in  this  Democratic  city.  'This  was  a  new 
city/ with  out  landmarks,  and  made  up  of  all  kinds  of  people 
— all  kinds  of  good  people,  like  the  people  under  tombstones. 
Even  the  streets  here  were  Democratic.  You  could  never  tell 
from  the  direction  they  started  in  whither  they  were  going,  or 
where  they  might  end ;  they  went  in  all  directions  except 
right  lines.  But  let  us  enter  the  saloon.  Here  are  some 
people  we  must  know.  There  on  the  right,  in  a  group  of 
half  a  dozen,  is  Bramlette,  a  poet ;  and  that  superb,  brown- 
eyed  woman  is  Mrs.  Sutherland,  known  in  these  parts  as  a 
magazine  writer  of  some  repute,  but  better  as  a  charming 
amateur  composer  and  performer  of  music,  and  best  as  leader 
of  fashion  and  queen  of  society.  One  should  not  describe 
the  dress  of  a  beautiful  woman  ;  it  looks  like  sacrilege.  There 
fore  all  women  ought  to  be  well  dressed ;  what  an  amount  of 
sacrilege  it  would  save  !  And  men  ought,  if  possible,  to  be 
well  dressed  too.  There,  for  instance,  is  poor  Bramlette, 
with  a  dozen  of  the  largest-sized  rice-buttons  in  his  shirt- 
front,  and  pants  a  foot  too  short.  Everything  is  political  in 
this  country.  Bramlette's  pants  were  political ;  the  knees 
were  radical,  and  the  bottom  of  the  legs  conservative ;  that 
is  to  say,  the  knees  pushed  forward  energetically,  and  the 
bottoms  hung  back  doggedly,  giving  to  the  legs  a  curve  not 
mentioned  by  Hogarth.  There,  sitting  apart,  is  Clarence 
Hall,  a  fair-haired  young  man  of  twenty-eight  or  thirty,  a 
University  man,  hazel-eyed.  The  young  lady  he  is  talking  to 
is  Annie  Deariug,  of  ruddy  face  and  dark  eyebrows,  daughter 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  79 

of  an  old-time  aristocrat,  thought  to  be  wealthy,  and  known 
to  be  pretty.  Mr.  Hall  seems  as  much  alone  with  the  lady  he 
is  talking  to  as  if  they  were  in  Mrs.  Dearing's  parlor,  with 
the  rich,  dark  curtains  down,  at  that  delightful  hour  when, 
the  rosy  twilight  gradually  deepening  into  violet,  a  richly 
furnished  parlor  has  an  air  of  repose  not  to  be  enjoyed  else 
where  or  at  any  other  hour.  There  in  the  dance  is  one  we 
have  met  before,  Fred  Van  Comer,  who  dances  and  laughs 
like  a  boy  ;  a  small  man,  slightly  built,  with  a  great  head — 
the  top  being  much  too  large  for  the  lower  portion — thick, 
curly,  blonde  hair,  and  steel-gray  eyes. 

The  message  Mirabeau  Holmes  received  from  "  Ashton " 
called  him  to  the  death-bed  of  his  mother.  When  one  wit 
nesses  the  last  scene  in  the  life  of  a  beautiful,  religious  woman, 
sees  her  conscious  to  the  last,  dispensing  a  parting  blessing  and 
bidding  a  kindly  adieu  to  friends,  calm  in  the  ineffable  hope 
of  immortality,  divinely  trustful  of  meeting  in  the  future  life 
loved  ones  gone  before  and  to  come  after,  one  sees  that  Death 
may  not  only  be  disrobed  of  his  terrors  but  even  clad  in  ha 
biliments  of  beauty.  Such  a  death  was  that  of  Mrs.  Holmes. 
And  now,  on  this  night  of  the  ball  at  Mr.  Walton's,  she  had 
been  sleeping  for  some  weeks  quietly  at  "  Olivet."  Mirabeau 
had  loved  his  mother  with  a  love  that  elevated  itself  to  fer- 
\  or.  But  it  was  only  of  late  that  he  had  learned  how  much 
she  had  done  for  him ;  how  she  had  entirely  forgotten  her 
self  and  looked  only  to  him ;  how,  in  order  that  he  might 
have  means  to  continue  his  studies,  she  had  worked  and  even 
endured  the  pinch  of  poverty  without  letting  him  know — for 
he  would  have  on  no  account  sxibmitted  to  it  if  he  had  known 
it.  And  when  he  did  know,  he  fervently  hoped  that  she  might 
live  to  see  the  day  when  he  could  lay  at  her  feet  a  wealth 
of  fame.  But  with  her  the  haven  was  gained,  and  the  ves 
sel's  voyage  over.  On  the  very  day  she  died  she  said  to  him, 


80  QA   IEA. 

"  My  son,  you  will  show  your  love  to  me  by  not  giving  way 
to  sorrow.  Remember,  I  bid  you,  when  you  leave  me  at 
'  Olivet,'  think  not  of  the  past,  but  look  only  to  the  future  ; 
from  that  moment  go  forward  to  do  and  to  win.  I  have 
never  for  a  moment  doubted  that  you  would  be  great  and 
good ;  and,  God  willing,  I  shall  still  be  with  you  to  protect 
you  with  my  prayers  and  love,  and  to  rejoice  over  all  that  is 
good  and  great  in  your  future."  It  took  Mirabeau  but  a  short 
while  to  arrange  his  business  after  his  mother's  death,  and 
leaving  "  Ashton  "  in  charge  of  his  mother's  man  of  business, 
he  was  soon  in  the  city  again,  where  he  determined  to  make 
his  future  home.  He  must  defer  his  trip  to  Europe,  as  it 
was  necessary  he  should  be  at  "  Ashton"  in  the  winter.  But 
learning  that  George  Walton  was  going,  he  transferred  his 
commissions  to  him,  promising  to  be  with  him  in  the  spring. 

That  night,  after  the  ball,  Bramlette  went  to  Fred  Yan 
Comer's  room.  Mirabeau  was  already  there.  Fred  got  there 
before  Bramlette. 

"  I  wish  Bramlette  would  wear  better  clothes,"  said  Fred. 

"  Are  not  his  clothes  good  enough  '?  " 

"  No  ;  they  are  bad  at  all  points.  I  mean  to  give  him  a 
slight  hint  when  he  comes  here.  He  said  he  would  come 
directly  ;  but  talk  of  a  man  with  breeches  a  foot  too  short — 
Comment  allez-vous,  Monsieur  Bram^eWe.  Look  in  that  box 
there,  and  get  a  mild  cigar,  and  light  it,  and  sit  down,  and 
improvise  us  some  poetry." 

"  An  ode  to  your  cigar  ;  it  will  crown  you  with  wreaths 
of  smoke,"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  We  will  weave  you  a  triple  crown,"  said  Fred. 

"Will  not  someone  throw  m  some  flowers?  What  say 
you,  Fred,  to  that  bunch  of  geraniums  ?  "  said  Bramlette. 

"  Capital,"  said  Mirabeau.  "  Maybe  we  should  then  have 
two  poems — an  ode  from  you  and  a  wail  from  Fred." 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  81 

"  Wail,  indeed  !  I  should  not  survive  to  write  mine  epitaph 
— I  should  not  live  to  see  whether  I  was  dead  or  no.  These 
flowers  !  I  would  not  give  them  to  crown  Corinna  herself 
with  !  I  would  not  contribute  them  to  the  corner-stone  of  St. 
Peter's  !  Know,  O  miserable  man,  that  they  were  given  mo 
by  Marian  Malcomb,"  said  Fred. 

"  Marian  Malcomb  !  "  involuntarily  exclaimed  Mirabeau. 

"  Ah  !  whitherward  listeth  the  breeze  now  ?  "  said  Bram- 
lette. 

"  Humph,"  said  Fred ;  "  this  thing  is  getting  complicated. 
I  move  we  resolve  ourselve's  into  a  committee  of  the  whole 
on  poetry,  and  sing  by  turns." 

"  If  we  proceed  now,"  said  Mirabeau,  "  both  of  you  will 
have  the  advantage  of  me ;  for  see  there,  Bramlette  has 
flowers  too." 

"  Good  !  You  play  critic  then — sing  us  a  Dunciad,"  said 
Fred. 

"  Only  a  small  bachelor-button  I  have,"  said  Bramlette. 

"  Who  gave  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Sutherland." 

"  Oh  ! " 

"Ah!" 

"  Why  not  put  it  on  your  shirt-bosom?  "  asked  Mirabeau. 

"  I  think  he  has  plenty  of  them  there  now,"  said  Fred. 
"  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat !  Bramlette,  what  do  you  want  with 
fifteen  buttons  of  that  size  in  your  bosom  ?  Do  you  propose 
to  keep  the  women  out,  as  it  were  ?  " 

"  Maybe  he  only  means  to  keep  his  own  heart  in,"  sug 
gested  Mirabeaii. 

"  It  will  go  down  through  his  breeches'  legs,"  said  Fred. 

"  Mercy  !  "  cried  Bramlette,  "  or  you  will  send  my  wits 
after  it." 

"  Never  overtake  it — the  legs  are  too  short,"  said  Fred. 
4* 


82  gA  IEA. 


fo"4 


"  What  else  did  Mrs.  Sutherland  give  you  ?  "  asked  B*ram- 
lette. 

"  A  piece  of  advice  —  to  let  everything  else  go,  and  write 
poetry,"  said  Bramlette. 

"  She  deserves  no  credit  for  that,"  said  Fred,  "  except 
for  agreeing  with  me.  I  had  just  said  it  to  her." 

"  Let  me  do  myself  the  credit  to  agree  with  both  of  you," 
said  Mirabeau. 

"  But  what  did  she  say  to  you,  Fred  ?  I  saw  you  talking," 
asked  Bratnlette. 

"  She  said  if  she  was  queen  of  some  favored  region  —  as  if 
any  region  would  not  be  a  favored  region  that  she  was  queen 
of  —  all  the  people  should  go  elegantly  dressed,"  said  Fred, 
returning  to  his  gentle  hint. 

"To  say  nothing  of  political  economy,"  said  Mirabeau, 
"  looking  at  the  matter  from  an  art  stand-point,  I  think  it 
would  require  even  a  longer  time  to  train  her  people  for  this 
promised  land  than  Moses  required  for  the  training  of  Fred's 
ancestors." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fred,  "  even  though  she  should  occasionally 
resort  to  a  trifling  miracle." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  '  trifling  miracle,'  Fred  ?  "  asked 
Bramlette." 

"  Oh,  no  barm,  no  irreverence,"  said  Fred.  "  A  trifling 
miracle  is  not  a  miracle  like  what  my  old  ancestors  used  to 
work,  with  the  utmost  comfort  and  despatch  —  such  as  stopping 
the  sun,  moon,  and  all  the  planets,  in  their  circuits  around  the 
earth  ;  or  even  the  crossing  of  the  Red  Sea,  which,  you  re 
member,  was  miraculously  allowed  to  be  repeated  by  Napo 
leon  and  his  staff,  some  thre1©-  or  four  thousand  years  after 
wards,  lest  in  so  long  a  time  there  might  have  grown  up  some 
doubt  about  the  possibility  of  performing  such  a  feat,"  said 
Fred. 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  83 

"  That  is  what  you  do  not  mean  by  a  c  trifling  miracle ' ; 
but  tell  us  what  you  do  mean  ?  "  said  Mirabeau. 

"  Oh,  Babylon  !  A  Scotch  miracle,  a  Scotch  miracle," 
said  Fred ;  "  only  a  Scotch  miracle ;  such  as  John  Knox 
and  the  other  Presbyterian  preachers  used  to  work — raising 
the  dead,  for  example,  which  seems  to  have  been  rather  com 
mon  among  the  most  eminent  divines.  But  speaking  of 
Presbyterian  preachers,  I  wonder  where  Mr.  Brooke  was  to 
night  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  he  was  at  Mrs.  Harlan's  ;  I  saw  him  there  when 
I  passed,"  said  Bramlette.  And  then  he  explained  to  Mira 
beau  that  Mr.  Brooke  was  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  charge 
of  which  Mr.  Walton  was  an  eminent  member.  Mr.  Brooke 
was  much  thought  of  in  the  city,  not  only  as  a  learned  and 
eloquent  preacher,  but  as  an  accomplished  member  of  so 
ciety. 

Mrs.  Sutherland  was  a  woman  deserving  more  than  a  pass 
ing  notice.  A  little  more  than  half  a  score  of  years  ago, 
you  might  have  seen  her  a  tall,  graceful,  brown-eyed  girl  of 
seventeen.  Even  then  she  had  probably  felt  more  of  what 
it  is  to  be  alive  in  the  world  than  most  women  ever  have 
cause  or  power  to  feel  at  all.  She  was  then  an  orphan.  Her 
father  was  one  of  the  old-time  aristocrats — a  rare  specimen. 
There  was,  in  truth,  but  one  Warren  Mason.  His  great 
weakness  was  vanity  of  hereditary  rank.  He  was  proud, 
exclusive,  narrow-minded,  imperious,  reckless.  Undoubted 
ly  of  great  personal  honor,  still  his  weakness  was  stronger 
than  his  honor.  He  would  close  his  doors  to  intellect,  tal 
ent,  genius,'  unless  accompanied,  as  is  seldom  the  case,  by 
certain  stars,  quarterings,  azures,  gules,  and  other  trumperies 
of  heraldry.  He  plunged  recklessly  into  debt,  without  the 
least  thought  of  how  he  was  to  get  out.  Mrs.  Mason  was  a 
noble,  true  woman;  but  she  had  been  taught  in  the  old 


84:  £A    IEA. 

school — not  actively  to  keep  trouble  off,  but  to  help  her  hus 
band  to  endure  it  when  it  came.  As  was  sure  to  be  the 
case,  the  time  came  when  the  magnificent  estate  of  Warren 
Mason  was  sold  under  the  sheriff's  hammer.  Then  came 
family  troubles,  tragedy,  a  part  of  that  world  of  tragedy 
which  is  enacting  daily  around  us,  but  concealed  from  the 
world,  through  all  of  which  the  noble  devotion  of  the  wife 
and  mother  shone  with  a  celestial  power  and  pathos.  Mr. 
Mason  soon  died.  His  wife  followed  him.  It  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  one  of  so  deep  and  sympathetic  a  nature  as  the 
daughter,  Margaret,  passed  through  all  this  without  being 
deeply  impressed.  This  experience  of  her  early  life  gave 
coloring  to  her  future.  It  was  necessary  that  this  woman 
should  live;  and  that  she  should  be  what  she  was,  this,  and 
no  other,  training  was  necessary.  Thus  it  is  that  the  univer 
sal  law  is  ever  compensatory ;  also  looking  ever  to  Human 
ity,  and  never  to  the  individual;  caring  ^not  whether  the  in 
dividual  be  great  or  small,  happy  or  miserable,  but  ever 
glorifying  Humanity,  and  looking  onward  to  the  time  when 
the  happiness  of  the  whole  shall  secure  the  happiness  of  every 
one.  Let  no  one  say  I  am  making  too  much  of  the  early 
life  of  this  woman.  Consider  the  future ;  and  let  no  one 
say  this  shall  lead  to  great  things,  that  to  small,  and  this 
other  to  none  at  all.  For  verily,  with  our  poor  understanding 
of  it,  this  is  a  wonderful  world  we  have  all  somehow  been  got 
into ;  and  I  for  one,  on  this  rainy  morning  in  July,  an  east 
wind  blowing  the  while,  am  right  truly  glad  that  among  the 
more  than  billion  of  human  players  now  playing  each  his  al 
lotted  part  in  this  wonderful  play,  coming  in  and  going  out, 
waking  and  sleeping,  eating,  drinking,  hungering  and  thirst 
ing,  resting  and  toiling,  loving  and  hating,  worshipping  and 
cursinr,  even  I  am  one,  and  have  that  within  me  which  shall 
carry  me  on  and  on,  it  may  be  through  future  ]^.ves,  in  future 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  85 

worlds  and  systems.  My  dear  reader,  maybe  you  have  a 
shilling  in  your  pocket,  and  intend  to  go  into  the  next  show- 
that  comes  along  to  see  what  you  can  see.  Maybe  you  have 
enough  to  take  you  to  New  York,  and  mean  to  see  Barnum's 
Museum.  Or,  maybe  you  have  thought  of  going  to  the  Old 
World  to  see  the  wonders  there — museums,  Louvres,  zoologi 
cal  gardens,  ruins  of  ancient  barbarisms,  what  not.  Or, 
perhaps,  though  I  hope  for  the  best,  you  have  not  any  shil 
ling  at  all  in  your  pocket,  nor  even  a  solitary  nickel,  to  take 
you  into  the  side-show  to  see  the  big  snake  and  the  monkeys. 
Nay,  it  may  even  come  to  this,  though  I  see  not  any  hope  of 
this  book  ever  coming  into  the  hands  of  one  so  poorly  off,  that 
you  never  heard  of  a  show  in  all  your  life,  nor  ever  saw  any 
thing  that  you  thought  more  wonderful  than  a  betsy-bug  or 
a  snapjack.  But  to  all,  and  every  one,  shilling  or  no  shil 
ling,  nickel  or  no  nickel,  whether  you  have  seen  all  the  won 
ders  of  the  East  or  only  a  poor  snapjack,  I  say,  there  is  a  great 
show  for  you  in  the  future  ;  truly  a  most  wonderful  show  ; 
it  will  not  cost  you  as  much  to  see  it  when  you  have  got 
there  as  you  have  to  pay  to  see  a  poor  old  monkey,  so  old 
that  he  has  worn  himself  bald-headed  behind.  Bless  you,  no  ! 
Kings,  princes,  aristocracies,  parliaments,  congresses,  all  com 
bined,  shall  not  be  able  to  prevent  you.  As  sure  as  you 
have  lived,  no  matter  how,  so  sure  shall  you  see  this  wonder 
ful  show  of  the  future.  "Verily,  yes  !  you  shall  see  it  with 
eyes.  Tune  up  your  viol,  reader ;  or,  if  you  have  none,  then 
bones  must  even  answer  in  its  place,  and  dance  for  joy  that 
you,  too,  are  alive  in  the  world  ! 

But  to  return  to  Mrs.  Sutherland.  And  right  here  I  may 
say  that  there  was  not  a  woman  in  any  area  of  country  you 
might  mention  that  one  would  like  better  to  return  to  and 
remain  with.  Margaret  Mason,  as  we  have  seen,  was  left  an 
orphan,  and  what  property  had  been  saved  to  her  from  the 


86  9A  IRA- 

wreck  of  her  father's  estate,  her  guardian,  according  to  the 
custom,  proceeded  to  convert  to  his  own  proper  use,  benefit, 
and  behoof.  She  soon  married  Dr.  Sutherland,  at  the  time 
of  which  we  write  a  most  genial  man,  an  eminent  physician- 
and  professor,  and  devoted  to  his  wife.  She  now  had  several 
children,  of  whom,  however,  it  is  not  my  intention  to  write, 
save  to  wish  them  all  manner  of  happiness,  especially  one  of 
them,  a  brown-eyed  girl,  much  like  her  mother,  whom  some 
of  our  people — none  more  than  the  author — will,  doubtless, 
be  glad  to  meet  again  before  the  close  of  this  history.  Mrs. 
Sutherland  was  now  devoting  herself  mainly  to  music. 

In  the  course  of  these  few  pages  I  have  several  times  men 
tioned  a  pair  of  brown  eyes ;  too  often,  maybe  the  reader 
thinks.  Better  to  be  thankful  that  it  is  no  worse  than  what 
it  is  ;  for  if  I  had  mentioned  them  as  often  as  I  have  thought 
of  them,  there  would  be  nothing  else  on  the  last  ,ten  pages. 
Maybe  you  have  no  belief  in  glorious  brown  eyes?  You 
never  saw  a  pair  in  your  life  outside  of  novels.  You  have 
no  faith  in  their  existence.  Go  straight  to  Mrs.  Sutherland, 
but  expect  not  to  come  away  whole.  Allans  ! 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  87 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

"  He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  a  she  : 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence, 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him." 

— S.  John. 

"  How  goes  the  world,  and  all  the  courts  thereof,  with 
thee,  Clarence  Hall,  this  night  of  our  Lord  ?  I  hope  the  said 
world  hath  this  day  well  and  truly  paid,  or  caused  to  be 
paid,  at  least  one  hundred  dollars  of  what  it  justly  owes 
you,"  said  Fred,  taking  a  seat  by  a  bright  coal-fire  in  Cla 
rence  Hall's  office,  having  already  taken  a  cigar  out  of  the  box 
on  the  mantle,  and  lit  it. 

"  As  to  what  the  world  has  paid  me,  I  can  speak  very 
positively  about  that — not  a  shilling.  As  to  what  the  world 
owes  me,  I  am  getting  doubtful  on  that  point." 

"  Uneasy  on  that  point  are  you  ?  as  the  fly  said  when  he 
lit  on  the  point  of  a  needle.  Better  get  off  of  it,  then." 

"  I  was  just  thinking,  as  you  came  in,  of  what  the  old  '  doc 
tor  '  used  to  say  to  us  sometimes  ;  you  have  heard  him  say  it : 
'You  will  be  valued,  my  boys, just  like  a  horse,  for  the  work 
that  can  be  got  out  of  you.'  " 

"How  else  should  he  be  valued  ?  For  what  he  is  indeed? 
There  might  be  much  difference  of  opinion  as  to  what  he  is 
— endless  disputes.  But  disputes  :  that  word  in  the  ears  of 
your  profession  is  like  all  the  words  of  Beatrice — tuneful, 
sweet." 

"  Are  you  ever  serious  upon  any  subject  ?  " 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it.     But  I  am  serious  sometimes,  be- 


88  <;A  IRA. 

cause  of  circumstances  over  which  I  have  no  control.  For 
example,  I  am  particularly  serious  to-night  about  two  things 
at  the  very  least." 

"  Proceed." 

"  Well,  I  must  get  something  to  do  by  the  end  of  this 
week,  or  I  shall  have  to  call  upon  you,  for  the  sake  of  that 
which  suffereth  long  and  is  kind,  which  believeth  all  things, 
endureth  all  things,  and  is  not  puffed  up,  to  get  me  out  of  a 
debtor's  prison." 

"  They  might  send  you  to  the  chain-gang  for  cheating  and 
swindling,  or  obtaining  goods  on  false  pretences ;  but  we  have 
no  imprisonment  for  debt  in  this  State." 

"  What's  done  with  it  ?  " 

«  Abolished." 

"When?" 

"  By  the  new  constitution. " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  Rads  did  it." 

"Yes ;  that  is  one  good  thing  they  did." 

"Umph!  I  suppose  it  was  a  matter  of  self-defence;  abol 
ished  it  to  keep  themselves  oiit." 

"  What  else  are  you  serious  about  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have  seen  a  woman,  and  what  must  be  her 
daughter.  But  the  beauty  of  that  girl !  It  is  like  the  beauty 
of  a  flower  in  the  garden  of  Kaipha  !  The  wind  of  the  si 
moom  sweeps  off  all  other  perfumes  from  the  clothing  of  the 
traveller,  but  it  can  never  sweep  off  from  the  heart  the  odor 
of  this  flower.  If  the  pavement  was  a  bed  of  flowers,  her 
fairy  feet  would  not  bruise  the  tiniest  violet.  Her  form  is 
like  a  branch  of  the  oriental  willow.  Her  cheek  is  rich  and 
full  as  the  dark  muscadine.  Hej  bosom  is  like  the  snow- 
flake  that  rests  upon  the  highest  mountain,  above  the  atmos 
phere  of  earth,  before  it  is  caressed  by  the  zephyr  or  blushes 
at  the  kiss  of  the  morning  sun. 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  89 

"  And  her  waist  is  as  slender  as  the  letter  Alif,  her  breath 
sweeter  than  the  breeze  that  blows  over  the  Spice  Islands ; 
and  her  voice  resembles  the  voice  of  the  harp  of  David.  Ex 
tolled  be  the  perfection  of  Him  who  created  and  finished  such 
beaiity  and  loveliness  ! 

"  Henceforth  I  am  out  of  danger  of  atheism.  I  shall  be 
lieve  in  design,  and  an  omnipotent  designer  evermore.  I 
can  account  for  watches  on  a  desert  island;  I  can  account 
for  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  the  bay  of  Naples,  the  Alps,  the 
valley  of  Yosemite,  the  volcanoes  in  the  moon,  the  spots  upon 
the  sun,  the  sun  itself,  and  all  the  stars,  without  an  omnipo 
tent  Creator.  But  here  is  perfect  perfection ;  nothing  but 
omnipotent  perfection  could  have  designed  and  finished  it. 

"  If  a  mere  mortal  may  look  upon  such  beauty  and  live, 
where  shall  be  our  Nebo  ?  " 

"  Nebo  !  No  Jordan's  waves  shall  fright  me  from  the  shore. 
I  have  come  to  ask  you.  You  know  her  mother.  She  lives 
in  the  little  brick  house,  with  the  vine-covered  veranda,  just 
around  the  corner  and  up  the  street  a  little  way." 

"  I  know  of  no  Juvenile  soon ;  so  you  must  wait  till  Sun 
day,  and  see  her  at  church." 

"  Church — church.  I  will  go.  I  have  not  been  in  two 
years,  but  I  will  go  Sunday.  Just  the  sacrifice  I  would  like 
to  make  for  her." 

"  We  must  go  early — to  Sunday-school." 

"  To  Sunday-school !  Yes  ;  I  will  learn  all  the  catechisms 
by  heart.  Under  other  circumstances  this  would  be  the 
death  of  me.  But  I  am  like  old  Luther  now ;  I  would  go 
if  I  knew  every  tile  upon  the  top  of  that  church  was  a  devil. 
Good-night !  " 

Clarence  Hall  was  a  lawyer — had  studied  at  the  University 
— had  ideas,  you  know — wanted  to  raise  the  profession,  as 
'Mr.  Brooke'  would  say.  He  felt  that  the  profession  in 


90  9A  IRA- 

Georgia  was  sadly  in  need  of  elevation.  And  he  thought, 
who  should  elevate  it  but  the  better  class  of  young  men  who 
were  just  then  entering  it  ?  men  who,  having  graduated  at 
the  University,  and  taken  their  degree  at  the  University  Law 
School,  could  not  fail  to  bring  into  the  profession  that  dignity, 
scholarship,  and  legal  learning  of  which  it  stood  in  imminent 
need.  Clarence  Hall  occupied  the  highest  round  among  this 
class  of  young  men  in  his  profession.  If  Clarence  Hall's 
idea  of  "  elevating  "  the  profession,  of  (l  reforming  "  it  in  some 
sense,  was  rather  vague,  he  was  clear  enough  as  to  what  he 
should  do  for  himself  in  the  profession.  He  was  determined 
to  become  a  great  lawyer.  Moreover,  he  would  not  be  so  long 
reaching  the  upper  story  as  most  who  get  there.  He  would 
not  depend  solely  upon  plodding  and  rising  gradually  ;  but, 
as  he  would  doubtless  have  some  time  to  spare,  say  for  three 
or  four  years,  he  would  write  a  law-book  which  should  go  far 
at  a  bound  to  make  his  reputation.  The  result  of  this  would 
be  that  he  would  find  himself  elevated  to  such  height  as  to  be 
able  to  step  right  off  upon  the  balcony  of  the  upper  story  of 
the  temple,  thus  finding  his  way  into  said  upper  story  by  a 
new  route.  This,  then,  could  not  fail  to  attract  attention ; 
and  a  large  practice  follow  as  a  matter  of  course.  And 
then — and  then — why,  yes.  And  then — O  stars,  shine  out 
your  brightest !  Sing  sweet,  ye  nightingales  !  And  then  he 
would — marry — Annie — Dearing.  Then  he  would  grow 
great. 

Clarence  Hall  believed  in  a  "  female  soul,"  and  he  be 
lieved,  too,  that  the  female  soul  was  the  "  complement "  of 
the  male  soul.  No  wonder,  then,  he  should  begin  to  grow 
great  in  earnest  as  soon  as  he  wa"s  married.  One  would  think 
he  might  widen  out ;  might  spread ;  might  grow  deeper ; 
might  also  be  purified  and  elevated  by  woman's  love  and 
trust.  Verily,  there  was  no  end  to  what  he  might  do ;  for  he 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON".  91 

should  then  and  there  become  a  complete. man — a  man  at  all 
points  !  Of  course  Clarence  Hall  did  not  express  the  idea  in 
such  style  as  this;  but  the  co^-e  of  the  thing  was  all-  the 
same.  Clarence  Hall  was  a  man  of  far  better  intellect,  far 
more  learning  and  culture,  more  generoxis  ambition,  in  a 
word,  was  a  far  better  man  at  all  points  than  many  who 
have  looked  forward,  not  altogether  without  reason,  to  a 
seat  on  the  Supreme  Bench  of  the  United  States.  And 
although  he  was  not  getting  on  as  briskly  as  he  had  hoped — 
for  he  had  hoped  that  by  this  time  his  practice  would  at  least 
amount  to  two  thousand  a  year,  while  in  fact  it  had  not  yet 
gone  beyond  four  hundred — he  had  still  not  lost  a  particle 
of  his  hope  and  energy.  Still  he  was  not  getting  on  as  well 
as  he  thought  he  ought.  His  book,  which  he  thought  ought 
to  have  been  finished  by  this  time,  was  not  more  than  half 
completed.  And  he  had  begun  to  see  that  it  is  a  difficult 
matter  to  write  a  book,  even  a  law-book,  which  one  would 
think  any  clod-head  might  write.  But  if  Clarence  Hall  had 
only  looked  around  him,  he  might  have  seen  that  he  was 
doing  well,  all  things  considered.  To  say  nothing  of  the 
score  of  young  attorneys  around  him,  who  by  regular  at 
tendance  upon  all  justice-courts,  and  by  dint  of  "copying," 
barely  managed  to  get  some  five  dollars  per  week  to  pay  their 
board-bills,  but  whom  he,  not  without  reason,  considered 
below  his  own  standard,  there  was  Van  Comer  and  Bram- 
lette,  neither  of  whom  was  supposed  to  be  doing  as  well  as 
himself.  Fred  Van  Comer  we  have  seen  something  of;  he 
was  determined  after  a  while  to  try  the  uncertain  field  of 
literature,  but  was  now  employed  as  reporter  for  one  of  the 
.city  papers.  Of  Bramlette  we  have  also  seen  somewhat — 
his  short  trousers  mainly ;  but  now  it  is  necessary  to  look 
beyond  the  man's  trousers — not  that  we  are  to  look  espe 
cially,  or  even  at  all,  to  that  eighteen  inches  of  leg  and  foot 


(?A   IRA. 

which  protruded  from  the  bottom  of  his  trousers'  legs,  nor 
that  we  are  to  strip  him,  inversely  as  a  prize-fighter,  in  order 
to  look  beyond  the  trousers.  ^What  we  are  now  to  look  to  is 
the  man's  inner  self,  his  heart — not  his  mere  flesh-and-blood 
heart,  for  that  we  should  never  get  to  throiigh  the  dozen 
rice-buttons  on  his  shirt-front,  six  times  as  many  as  there 
oiight  to  have  been  if  he  had  been  a  girl,  and  no  better  look 
ing  than  he  was. 

Bramlette  was  a  poet.  Do  poets  wear  trousers  a  foot  too 
short?  Poets  wear  what  they  can  get.  Besides,  nobody 
that  knew  this  man  would  have  been  at  all  surprised  to  see 
him  attired  in  a  solitary  toga.  He  was  not  like  the  conven 
tional  poet — long,  thin,  silky  hair,  smooth  face,  delicate  fea 
tures,  slight  figure,  and  tuneful  voice.  His  voice  was  deep 
and  harsh,  his  frame  angular,  his  face  rotigh  and  uneven. 
And  what  a  jaw  he  did  have  !  Beyond  all  doubt  it  was  as 
large  and  strong  as  that  sacred  bone  which,  in  the  hand  of 
Samson,  a  judge  in  Israel  and  a  mighty  man  of  valor — ac 
cording  to  the  decision  of  the  priests  at  Nice — is  reported  to 
have  been  the  death  of  vast  quantities  of  Philistines.  But 
as  to  how  a  man,  as  big  as  Samson  must  have  been,  could  find 
enough  water  to  drink,  and  that  too  when  he  was  very  thirsty, 
in  the  bone  aforesaid,  I  leave  that  to  the  theologians — Rev. 
John  E.  Squalls  included — feeling  satisfied  that  they  will 
"  reconcile "  it  with  every  word  in  the  English  language 
ending  in  ology,  including  typology.  But  here  is  some  of 
Bramlette's  poetry : 

OVER  THE  WALL. 

Lo  !  upon  a  garden  fencing1  • 

Hung  a  vine,  with  pendent  bough, 
Wooiug,  then,  the  sunlight  glancing 

From  its  purple  leaflets'  glow. 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  93 

And  the  winds  one  day  came  o'er  it, 

Sweeping  down  through  brake  and  vale  • 
Lifted  up  the  vine,  and  bore  it 

Out  beyond  the  garden's  pale. 
Hidden  then,  the  truant  cluster, 

From  the  gardener's  watchful  thrall, 
Bloomed  in  all  the  rich  sun-lustre, 

Just  beyond  the  garden  wall. 
And  the  gardener  ne'er  had  known  it, 

But  that  he,  one  summer  day, 
Crossing  where  the  breeze  had  blown  it, 

Came  to  where  its  branches  lay. 
And  he  found  it  here  all  laden 

With  a  rich  and  luscious  crown, 
Precious  fruitage — only  hidden 

Till  the  harvest  breeze  had  blown. 
Mourner !  o'er  life's  garden  railing 

God  hath  borne  your  dearest  love  ; 
Lifted  it  to  bloom  unfading, 

'Neath  the  amber  skies  above. 
You  shall  find  it  there  before  you, 

When  you  leave  your  earthly  thrall, 
Ripened  into  perfect  glory,  , 

Just  beyond  the  garden  wall. 

Prove  all  things.  I  very  much  doubt  if  the  reader,  in 
spite  of  the  most  positive  assertions,  nay,  in  spite  of  affida 
vits,  could  have  been  made  to  believe,  without  these  verses, 
that  Bramlette  was  any  poet  at  all.  While  in  the  Univer 
sity,  Brarnlette  had  made  a  prodigious  reputation.  Would 
anybody  believe  it,  statesmen  and  scholars  actually  con 
tended  as  to  who  should  be  the  fortunate  individual  that 
should  STipply  him  with  means !  for  he  was  very  poor. 
And  when  he  set  out  in  the  world  he  found,  to  his  amaze 
ment,  that  he  was  already  well  known  far  and  wide,  and  that 
great  things  were  expected  of  him.  Poor  Bramlette  !  Ten 
to  one  this  will  be  the  ruin  of  him.  What  right  had  his 


94  £A   IRA. 

friends  to  believe  that  he  could  escape  the  ten  thousand 
cares  and  mishaps  that  contend  with,  and,  ten  to  one,  over 
come  the  stoutest  hearts  and  clearest  heads  ?  That  this 
man,  in  a  fortnight's  time,  should  rise  to  such  height  of  suc 
cessful  eminence  as  that  they  all  might  join  in  chorus, 
Behold  what  genius  can  do ! — each  one  the  while  thinking 
how  much  credit  himself  deserved  for  his  part  in  the  trans 
action  ?  Here  is  what  a  better  than  common  judge  of  cha 
racter  might  have  written  of  Bramlette  about  the  time  he 
left  the  University :  Nervous,  wayward  genius,  vertiginous 
from  very  weight  of  brow !  Uncertain  only  of  thyself, 
•while  true  to  principles,  to  foemen,  and  to  friends,  what 
shall  we  say  of  thee?  For  thy  orbit  gyrates  in  cycloidal 
curves  beyond  the  ken  of  soothsayers'  view,  or  telescope  of 
astrologers;  nor  will  calculus,  sines,  cosines,  tangents,  nor 
radii  weave  out  thy  thread  of  destiny.  Where  look  for 
the  threatened  force,  the  positive  or  negative  attractions 
foreboding  evil  to  those  gyrating  sweeps  in  thine  now  un 
certain  orbit  ?  But  lo  !  the  inspiration  comes — hark  the 
whiffling  wings — swoop  lower,  ye  whispering  mystic  nymphs, 
and  tell  us  !  Aha  !  look — yonder  !  yonder  !  yonder  !  See  ? 
Ay  !  There ;  we  see  in  each  cycloidal  centre  a  polished 
shaft  of  Parian  rock — the  caps,  the  pedestals  of  the  match 
less  forms  of  winged  cherubs,  each  armed  with  quivers  full, 
and  bows  sprung  to  the  ear.  Each  shoots  as  the  body  sweeps 
along,  and  shot  after  shot  tells  upon  the  riven  heart :  bleed 
ing,  quivering,  dying.  Ah !  yet  still  the  impulsive  force 
of  beauty  lures  along  the  cj'cloidal  curve — and  on,  and  on, 
and  onward  sweeps.  It  is  gone  !  Alas  !  This  is  p.ll  we  see  ! 
The  questions,  At  which  shaft  will  you  fall  ?  and  when 
fallen  will  you  stick  ?  Yet,  whfcii  the  threatening  force  is 
repelled  or  absorbed,  and  the  broad  and  sturdy-  pinions 
sweep  into  their  annual  course,  its  flight  will  be  ipward, 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  95 

soaring  steadily  amidst  the  galaxies  of  orators  and  poets, 
theologians  or  statesmen— carving  a  name  on  the  highest 
and  most  spotless  shield  of  all.  Vincit  qui  se  v(ncit ! 

The  same  might  also,  at  one  time,  have  been  written  of 
Schiller,  who  abandoned  law  and  became  the  Teneriffe  of 
German  poets— Goethe  always  being  the  Orizaba  among 
them.  Also,  it  might  at  one  time  have  been  written  of  poor 
Burns,  \vho  was  at  length  "  patronized  "  by  the  great,  gauged 
whiskey-barrels,  and  ended  one  of  the  mournfiilest  tragedies 
Humanity  has  ever  been  called  upon  to  weep  or  witness ;  of 
Dickens,  too,  and  god-like  Rousseau.  Shall  I  add,  that  if  you 
will  take  your  position  in  front  of  the  post-office  you  will 
probably  see  a  score  of  men  of  whom  also  these  words  might 
once  have  been  written  ?  Forty  years  old,  and  unknown  to 
their  next-door  neighbors — unless  they  happen  to  have  vicious 
wives  or  sickly  children  ! 

The  next  Sunday  came,  and  Fred,  duly  armed  with  cate 
chisms^  went  with  Clarence  Hall  to  church.  They  got  a  seat 
where  Fred  could  have  a  full  view  of  Olive  Sutherland — she 
of  the  voice  of  the  harp  of  David,  and  form  of  the  oriental 
willow.  Fred  wanted  to  talk,  but  Hall  would  not  "  talk  in 
church." 

«  Who  is  that  sitting  by  her,  Hall  ?  " 

"  That  is  Emma  Harlan  ;  very  pretty  ;  but  I  will  tell  yoii 
more  of  her  after  church  !  " 

Emma  Harlan  was  much  like  Olive  Sutherland ;  perhaps 
slightly  more  infantine  in  appearance.  But  her  cheek  was 
browner,  and  resembled  a  luscious  ripe  peach — the  sunny  side 
of  it.  The  class  to  which  the  two  girls  belonged  was  a  favor 
ite  of  the  pastor's — for  Mr.  Brooke  was  a  gentleman  of  taste, 
with  an  ardent  admiration  for  the  beautiful — and  he  often 
conducted  it  himself,  as  he  did  to-day.  Rev.  Melancthon 
Brooke  was  universally  honored,  not  less  for  high  Christian 


9G  £A   IRA. 

piety  than  for  social  virtues.  He  was  a  man  of  fine  culture, 
and,  for  a  Presbyterian  preacher,  had  liberal  opinions.  He 
had  the  rare  good  fortune — the  result  of  talent,  culture,  good 
manners,  and  genial  disposition — to  be  liberal  and  good-hu 
mored  without  subjecting  himself  to  the  imputation  of  "  world- 
liness."  Mr.  Brooke  was  not  considered  a  whit  less  strict  in 
all  essentials  than  the  most  fervent  follower  of  John  Knox. 
If  any  member  of  Mr.  Brooke's  flock  had  set  out  to  find  a 
man  who,  if  necessary,  would  even  die  at  the  stake  for  his 
religion — a  most  difficult  undertaking  then,  as  now — Mr. 
Brooke  would  have  been  the  man  selected  for  such  martyr 
dom. 

Alf  Walton — a  dark-visaged  man,  probably  the  most  dis 
tinguished-looking  man  in  the  house  except  possibly  the 
preacher  himself — sat  just  in  front  of  Mr.  Brooke,  and  scarcely 
took  his  eye  off  him  while  he  was  hearing  the  class.  Alf 
Walton  had  been  here  for  several  Sundays  past,  and  Mr. 
Brooke  had  observed  more  than  once  his  eye  fixed  keenly  upon 
himself.  And  Mr.  Brooke,  though  a  man  of  easy  grace,  and 
utmost  self-control,  grew  a  little  nervous  under  the  scowling 
gaze.  Alf  Walton  thought  that  Mr.  Brooke  was  his  rival. 
Not  only  so,  but  in  his  own  mind  he  accused  Mr.  Brooke  of 
having  no  purer  motive  in  seeking  to  gain  the  favor  of  Emma 
Harlan  than  himself.  Forgetting  all  about,  or  paying  no 
attention  to,  Mr.  Brooke's  high  character  as  a  clergyman  and 
Christian  gentleman,  he  placed  him  on  a  level  with,  and  as  no 
better  than,  himself — an  epicurean  debauchee — and  saw  that 
here  was  a  rare  case  for  scandal.  It  was  not  a  difficult  matter, 
he  thought,  to  find  a  clergyman  engaged  in  the  devilish  work 
of  seeking  the  ruin  of  the  innocent  lambs  of  his  flock.  Pray 
do  not  put  down  Mr.  Brooke -a  very  bad  man,  full  of  the 
blackest  plots,  murders,  arsons,  thefts,  seductions,  and  all  the 
catalogue  of  crimes,  because  Alf  Walton  thought  so.  Mr. 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  97 

Brooke  was  a  man  of  splendid  physique,  of  high  and  noble 
forehead,  intellectual  brow,  and  full,  open,  gray  eye,  beaming 
with  culture,  good-humor,  and  benevolence.  Alf  Walton 
thought  he  had  one  advantage  over  Mr.  Brooke,  even  if  he 
had  not  the  livery  of  heaven  in  which  to  Serve  the  devil. 
Mr.  Brooke  was  a  married  man.  He  well  knew  that  vice,  to 
approach  innocence  with  any  hope  of  finding  favor,  must  be 
carefully  hid  beneath  the  spotless  robes  of  virtue,  or  ob 
scured  by  the  very  glow  of  love.  Moreover,  he  had  one  other 
great  advantage,  or  what  might  be  so,  gold — yellow,  glitter 
ing,  precious  gold  ;  "  the  yellow  slave  that  can  knit  and  break 
religions  ;  "  gold — "  the  ever  young,  fresh,  lov'd,  and  delicate 
wooer,  whose  blush  doth  thaw  the  consecrated  snow  that  lies  on 
Dian's  lap  !  "  But  it  was  for  the  former  rather  than  the  latter 
purpose  that  Alf  Walton  hoped  he  might  use  this  yellow 
slave,  that  will  "  lug  your  priests  from  your  side."  How  shall 
this  simple  girl  escape  this  accomplished  villain  ?  And  if 
Alf  Walton's  conjecture  was  true,  would  there  be  any  hope 
for  her  at  all  ?  Would  not  her  greatest  security  against  the 
one  be  her  greatest  danger  from  the  other  ?  There  was  one 
hope — she  might  marry  ;  but  this  was  away  out  in  the  laven 
der  ;  because  she  was  very  young,  very  poor,  and  yet  of  an 
intelligence  and  culture  that  raised  her  up  into  the  circle 
where  men  make  money  a  consideration. 

Mrs.  Harlan,  Emma's  mother,  was  a  widow,  and  an  inva 
lid.  She  lived  in  a  neat  little  cottage  on  Ivy  street.  She 
had  been  left  a  widow  about  the  beginning  of  the  great  war 
between  the  States — in  which  we  all  lost  our  negroes  and 
trinkets — with  five  children,  Emma  and  four  brothers.  One 
by  one  the  four  manly  boys  had  all  fallen  upon  the  battle- 
scarred  hills  of  Virginia.  She  was  left  destitute,  and  came  to 
this  city  with  her  little  girl.  She  received  assistance  from 
the  Freemasons.  At  first  she  was  able  to  do  needlework, 


98  £A    IRA. 

but  soon  her  health  gave  way,  and  she  was  a  confirmed  inva 
lid.  She  was  a  good  woman,  and  bore  her  hard  lot  with  such 
unmurmuring  resignation  as  touched  the  hearts  of  all  who 
had  any  to  be  touched.  She  was  not  sick  enough  to  be  in 
bed ;  and  Emma,  according  to  her  earnest  wish,  was  kept  in 
school  by  her  friends.  It  was  not  far  to  school,  and  so 
Emma  came  home  every  day ;  and  afternoons,  when  returned 
from  school,  she  sang  to  her  mother,  and  frequently  brought 
her  pretty  bouquets  and  flowers  ;  for  Emma  was  a  favorite  of 
the  girls,  and  they  knew  of  her  sick  mother  at  home,  and 
how  glad  she  was  for  Emma  to  bring  her  flowers.  They 
lived  alone ;  but  there  never  passed  a  day  but  some  one 
called.  Besides,  Mrs.  Harlan  could  always  find  company  in 
the  little  library  of  books  she  had  collected.  Mr.  Brooke 
was  her  pastor,  and  always  came  twice  or  three  times  a 
week.  Dr.  Sutherland  came  every  few  days,  ,and  some 
times  '  his  noble  wife,  who,  I  doubt  not,  if  by  her  viva 
city  and  sympathy  she  helped  to  lighten  the  weight  of  sor 
row  that  pressed  heavily  upon  this  poor  widow,  felt  better 
than  when  she  received  the  highest  praises  of  her  admirers. 
If  there  was  a  children's  party  at  Mrs.  Sutherland's,  she 
was  sure  to  have  Emma  there ;  and  as  far  as  was  in  her 
power,  which  we  have  seen  was  considerable,  she  saw  to 
it  that  in  society  Emma  was  treated  with  the  considera 
tion  due  to  herself,  without  regard  to  the  accident  of  her 
surroundings. 

But  the  friend  whom  Mrs.  Harlan  always  welcomed  most 
gladly  was  the  Christian  soldier  and  minister,  General 
Clement.  Alas,  alas !  that  language,  even  the  best,  is  so 
trite,  land  the  noblest  epithets  so  often  applied  to  the  com 
monest  men,  there  are  none  left  worthy  to  apply  to  this  one. 
There  was  a  tie  between  them  which  the  reader  will  under 
stand.  All  four  of  Mrs.  Harlan's  sons  had  gone  out  to  the 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  99 

•war  in  General  Clement's  old  company.  Ever  in  front  of 
the  battle,  he  had  seen  them  all  die  faithfully  at  their 
posts.  Every  one  of  them  he  himself  had  promoted  for 
gallantry  upon  the  field.  The  last  that  died  was  on  the 
final,  fatal  day  at  Petersburg,  and  the  brave  General  felt 
his  heart  wrung  as  it  had  seldom  been  before.  This  was  the 
youngest.  The  General  came  up  with  him  while  his  life 
was  leaping  away.  Is  it  strange,  O  reader,  that  in  this 
last  supreme  moment  he  thought  of  his  home  instead 
of  glory  and  successful  war  ?  He  had  scarcely  breath  to 
speak. 

"  Dear  General,  you  know  I  am  the  last  of  us — you  will 
see  my  poor  mother,  and  little  sister — say  a  word  of  comfort 
to  them.  I  had  hoped  to  live  ;  but  " —  The  young  soldier 
had  passed  over  the  river  to  join  his  great  Capt'ain.  The 
noble  General  Clement  never  forgot  the  words  of  the  dying 
soldier.  And  not  many  days  now  passed  that  he  did  not  call 
in  to  "  say  a  word  of  comfort  to  the  mother  and  sister." 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  Sunday  we  have  been  speaking  of, 
Mr.  Brooke  called  at  the  cottage  on  Ivy  street.  Bramlette 
was  there.  In  the  course  of  conversation  Mr.  Brooke  found 
that  his  new  acquaintance  had  a  head  on  his  shoulders  much 
better  filled  than  his  breeches'  legs  were  ;  and  that  he  was  also 
a  iniin  of  much  better  taste  than  one  would  think  from  a 
superficial  view  of  his  shirt-bosom.  As  to  how  Bramlette 
came  there,  why,  he  just  happened  to  stop  there  a  few  minutes 
one  afternoon  with  General  Clement,  and  Emma  came  in 
•while  he  was  there.  This  explains  why  he  had  been  there 
several  times  since.  The  next  day  an  elegant  phseton  stopped 
before  the  little  cottage  on  Ivy  street,  from  which  a  distin 
guished-looking  gentleman  emerged  and  entered  the  house. 
He  introduced  himself,  and  begged  to  leave  a  large,  richly 
bound  Bible,  on  the  fly-leaf  of  which  were  these  words  :  "  To 


100  gA  IRA. 

the  best  student  of  the  Bible-class,  from  one  who  has  watched 
her  course  with  interest,"  And  on  a  slip  of  paper  between 
the  pages,  "  For  Miss  Emma  Harlan."  With  the  utmost 
grace  the  gentleman  begged  Mrs.  Harlan  would  not  mention 
his  name. 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  101 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"There  was  a  time  when  I  could  not  have  slept,  had  I  forgotten  my  evening  prayers. 
....  There  was  a  time  when  my  tears  flowed  so  freely — oh,  those  days  of  peace  1 — 
Dear  home  of  my  fathers — ye  verdant,  halcyon  vales  ! — O,  all  ye  Elysian  scenes  of  my 
childhood  ! — will  you  never  return  ? — Will  your  delicious  breezes  never  cool  my  burn 
ing  bosom  ? — Mourn  with  me,  Nature,  mourn  ! — They  will  never  retuni  1  never  will 
their  delicious  breezes  cool  my  burning  bosom  ! — They  are  gone  ! — gone  ! — irrevocably 
gone  1 "— SCHILLER,  T/ie  Robbers. 

JAMES  ARNOT  lived  in  the  wildest  and  most  solitary  region 
of  the  Blue  Ridge  mountains.  The  square,  old-fashioned, 
wooden  house  was  built  upon  the  summit  of  what  had  been  a 
towering  conical  peak ;  but  the  top  of  the  cone  was  cut  off, 
as  if  by  the  levelling  sword  of  some  plebeian  god,  for  its 
haughty  insolence,  and  had  rolled  down  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  and  dashing  itself  across  the  small  stream  which 
flowed  between  the  adjacent  hills,  formed  a  small  but  beaxiti- 
ful  mountain-lake.  From  the  truncated  summit  there  had 
sprung,  as  if  before  held  down,  by  the  superincumbent  pres 
sure,  a  great  forest  of  pine  and  chestnut.  There  was  now  no 
road  leading  to  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  hoxise  had  been 
built  many  years  before  by  a  family  in  the  South,  intending 
to  spend  part  of  the  summer  in  these  wilds.  But  it  was 
scarcely  finished  when  one  of  those  "  accidents  "  came  along 
which  stand  for  nothing  in  our  calculations,  but  for  much  in 
the  book  of  fate.  So  the  house  had  never  before  been  inhab 
ited  by  human  beings.  There  had  been  a  road  leading  up  to 
the  house.  Beginning  at  the  base,  it  wound  spirally  around 
the  mountain,  and  came  to  the  summit  on  the  side  from 
which  it  started.  You  might  see  traces  of  it  now ;  and  ou 
the  esplanade,  which  was  perfectly  level,  containing  some 


102  9A  IEA- 

five  or  six  acres,  without  shmb  or  flower  except  native  ones, 
and  without  a  sign  of  fence  or  garden,  might  still  be  seen 
remains  of  a  circular  drive. 

There  was  not  another  house  in  ten  miles  of  this  place. 
Not  an  echo  of  civilization  was  heard  here.  But  you  might 
hear  the  dismal  howl  of  the  wolf  upon  the  neighboring  hills ; 
and  on  a  still  night  you  might  catch  a  few  notes  of  the  wild 
chorus  from  Indian  Swamp,  where  the  treble  of  the  eagle  and 
the  nighthawk  mingled  with  the  wailing  of  the  panther,  and 
the  low  bass  of  the  deep-hooting  owl.  This  fearful  swamp 
was  some  miles  distant,  and  was  so  called  from  a  wild  Indian 
legend  connected  with  it.  Arnot  lived  here  without  any  ser 
vant,  and  with  no  companion  but  the  old  man  we  have  seen 
with  him.  The  walls  of  the  rooms  were  curiously  painted ; 
the  rough  pictures  corresponding  with  the  wildness  of  the 
surroundings.  There  were  some  pictures  of  the  mpst  splen 
did  natural  scenery.  Hei-e  was  a  chaos  of  mountain-scene  ;  as 
of  mountains  of  all  sizes,  and  all  shapes,  from  the  polished 
cone  to  the  most  jagged  bear,  hurled  pellmell  at  each  other 
by  contending  giants,  and  left  just  as  they  had  fallen  or  rolled 
against  each  other,  crushing  and  tearing  themselves  into  the 
most  grotesque  shapes.  Here  were  also  mountain-lakes,  and 
waterfalls,  and  streams  with  banks  covered  with  water-oaks 
and  stunted  cottonwood,  matted  with  vines  of  grape  and 
muscadine.  On  the  walls  of  one  room  were  pictures  of  rare 
birds  of  the  American  forests,  and  wild  animals  ;  while  on  the 
walls  of  another  were  representations  of  various  Indian  rites 
and  ceremonies — the  green-corn  dance,  war-dance,  council  of 
peace,  courts  of  justice,  games,  and  marriage  ceremonies. 
Arnot's  sleeping-room  was  on  the  second  floor;  and  here 
were  representations  of  several  Indian  legends.  On  one  side, 
at  the  head  of  his  bed,  the  well-known  legend  of  "  The 
Evening  Star,"  than  which  not  the  mystic  fancy  of  the 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  103 

North,  nor  the  gorgeous  imagery  of  the  Southern  Orient,  has 
furnished  any  legend  more  beautiful.  The  scene  upon  Yonah 
was  given  just  at  the  moment  when,  the  death-dance  ended 
and  the  daring  young  lover  hurled  over  the  precipice,  Na,- 
coochee  breaks  from  the  arms  of  her  old  father  and  leaps 
from  the  height.  Sublime  love !  Heroic  death  !  This  is 
the  grandeur  of  humanity.  And  it  may  glow  in  the  breasts 
of  Indians.  Verily,  there  is  a  common  brotherhood  of  spiri 
tual,  as  well  as  animal,  humanity  ! 

On  the  wall  opposite  was  a  representation  of  the  legend  of 
Indian  Swamp.  Scene,  a  wild  wilderness  :  a  beautiful  young 
white  man,  apparently  a  Spaniard,  stands  upon  a  round  pole, 
which  is  supported  at  one  end  by  the  fork  of  a  tree,  and  at 
the  other  by  a  stake  about  which  a  fire  has  been  kindled. 
The  young  man  stands  erect,  and  part  of  his  rich,  black  hair, 
which  seems  to  have  been  tucked  under,  has  come  down,  and 
falls  over  his  shoulder  almost  to  his  waist.  He  has  a  cord 
about  his  neck,  which  is  fastened  to  a  limb  overhead ;  and  a 
circle  of  Indians,  who  seem  to  have  been  dancing  around 
him,  are  just  in  the  act  of  running  away.  A  great  hawk 
rests  upon  a  broken  branch  of  a  dead  tree ;  and  an  eagle  is 
poised  for  flight  from,  his  perch  upon  the  top.  The  head  of 
a  wolf  was  seen  through  a  neighboring  thicket. 

It  was  one  night  soon  after  his  return  from  Georgia ;  and 
James  Arnot  was  alone  in  his  room.  Without,  the  night 
•was  dark ;  and  the  fitful  wailing  of  the  wind  about  the  eaves 
and  corners  of  the  house,  and  through  the  low  branches  of 
the  great  chestnuts,  mingled  strangely  with  the  monotonous, 
solemn,  dirge-like  notes  of  the  lofty  pines.  Above  all  was 
heard  the  impatient  roar  of  winds  lost  among  the  chaos  of 
hills  and  valleys  around.  Arnot  sat  in  a  large  arm-chair 
before  the  fire.  The  logs  had  burned  down  to  a  great  bed 
of  coals,  which  sent  forth  that  fierce,  red  glare  that  reminds 


104  gA  TEA. 

one  of  a  dying  Indian.  "Why  ft  it  that  people  in  trouble 
will  think  aloud  ? 

"  I  said  I  would  reach  the  bottom — I  have  done  it.  But 
I  wish  there  was  more  to  do — or  else — yes — or  else — I  had 
not  begun.  Suppose — but  why  suppose  ?  Can  the  num 
bered  years  be  called  back  ?  Can  mortals  pluck  leaves  from 
the  book  of  Fate  ?  or  can  I  unwrite  even  one  little  chapter  ? 
And  yet,  I  will  suppose — speculate  upon  what  good  was 
present  to  Jehovah's  eye,  and  dismissed  for  the  present  ill. 
See — yes — that  night  and  the  consequent  years.  Could  not 
disgrace  and  scorn  of  fortune  be  endured  for  one  little  life  ? 
I  would  accept  it  now,  though  it  should  last  a  thousand 
years.  Failures,  poverty,  death  of  relatives,  desertion  of 
friends,  buffetings  of  fortune — all  that  many  fret  and  mag 
nify  their  poor  lives  with — ye  are  less  than  trifles,  scarce 
worth  a  thought  in  the  endurance.  Misfortune  is  but  coun 
terfeit,  and  puts  on  the  royal  robes  of  suffering.  '  But  shall 
a  few  years  stand  against  eternity  ?  Only  three  years — or 
has  the  past  been  at  all  ?  Maybe  it  is  only  in  the  mind 
itself.  We  cheat  ourselves  with  fear  of  this  phantasm  mem 
ory,  as  by  hopes  of  what,  like  fools,  we  call  the  future  we 
prick  ourselves  on.  No  !  memory  is  a  lie — there  is  no  past 
— there  is  no  future.  And  yet — I  fear.  There.  I  will 
write  it  down,  that  I  will  not  fear.  But  there's  a  pen  can 
only  write  in  blood — ha !  and  a  dagger  too,  could  tell  a  tale 
would  freeze'  living  coals  to  arctic  adamant." 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  thoughts  went  far  out 
upon  the  other  side  of  silence.  So  he  sat  for  an  hour. 
Then  he  got  up,  went  to  a  trunk,  and  brought  out  a  small 
volume.  He  turned  to  the  fly-leaf — "  *  My  mother ' — yes, 
'  from  mother  to '  me.  .  I  will  fancy  myself  a  child  again — I 
will  read  a  chapter — then  I  will  say  the  old  prayer  we  used 
to  .say  at  home — and  go  to  bed."  He  read  the  chapter,  and 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  105 

in  a  few  moments  the  silent  figures  iipon  the  walls  looked 
upon  a  scene  they  had  never  witnessed  before.  James 
Arnot  was  kneeling  at  his  bedside,  and  his  head  rested  upon 
the  little  book  sanctified  by  a  mother's  prayer.  He  meant 
to  repeat  the  simple  prayer,  which,  as  children,  they  used  to 
repeat  at  home  long  ago.  But  when  he  came  to  the  words, 
"  God  bless  father  and  mother,"  he  thoiight  of  his  own  child, 
and  there  went  forth  from,  the  abyss  of  his  soul  a  wail  that 
might  have  made  the  dead  pictures  shudder.  "  Lost — lost — 
lost."  The  cry  came  from  the  last  depth  of  agony.  Blasted 
and  riven,  this  human  soul  had  clung  to  one  hope.  It  felt 
within  itself  a  spark  of  the  everlasting — it  could  not  be 
destroyed — it  was  beyond  the  power  of  fate ;  somewhere  in 
the  infinite  world  of  spirit  there  was  one  soul  with  which 
this  could  claim,  and  from  which  it  could  receive,  sympathy ; 
there  was  but  one — there  never  would  be  another ;  but  there 
was  one — and  that  too  was  indestructible  by  God  or  fate : 
it  was  James  Arnot's  child.  Here  was  a  human  soul  with- 
ont  hope  in  time,  and  with  but  one  in  eternity,  looking  for 
ward  to  the  time  when  it  should  meet  its  own  child,  and  re 
ceive  that  sympathy  without  which,  it  seems,  the  immortal 
spirit  itself  would  die.  How  true  it  is  that  things  the  most 
palpable  will  frequently  not  occur  to  the  mind  when  con 
trary  to  its  strongest  hope.  It  was  only  now  that  it  occurred 
to  Arnot  that  this  meeting  might  never  be — that  they  might 
be  in  worlds  apart. 

It  is  only  the  sense  of  companionship  that  makes  life  at  all 
endurable.  Were  there  but  one  man  on  the  earth,  he  would 
be  a  terror  to  himself.  Were  there  biit  one  spirit  in  heaven, 
heaven  itself  would  be  a  dismal  solitude.  And  what  solitude 
more  solitary  than  the  solitude  of  the  utterly  unsympathizing 
crowd  ?  What  then  must  be  the  supreme  agony  of  the  soul 
that  suddenly  feels  itself  utterly  alone  forever !  No  wonder 


106  gA  IRA. 

Arnot  rose  almost  mad  with  terror  and  despair.  He  looked 
down  at  himself  as  he  would  upon  some  strange  animal,  and 
started ;  he  saw  his  shadow  upon  the  wall,  and  started  again. 
Then  he  walked  across  the  room,  and  sat  down  before  the  lire. 
"  Lost — lost — lost ;  alone — alone — alone.  My  sweet  baby, 
I  will  never  see  thee  more."  And  then,  after  a  silence  : 

"  But  the  soul — it  is  immortal— =-and  they  say  the  mind 
can  never  lose  anything.  The  thoughts  and  feelings  that  en 
ter  it  are  not  coloring-matter  to  be  bleached  out  by  the  dews 
of  time,  but  the  very  threads — woof  and  warp — the  mind  it 
self.  And  death  cannot  destroy  it — cannot  change  it — not 
one  memory  can  it  touch,  or  one  feeling.  I  will  not  forget 
thee  there,  my  pretty  child — my  own  sweet  baby-girl.  And 
that  thou  art  happy  I  will  be  glad,  though  I  never  see  thee 
more." 

How  is  it,  O  reader,  that  a  strong  man  should  thus  be 
overcome — thus  mourn  the  inevitable  ?  James  Arnot  was 
not  a  strong  man.  Arnot  laid  another  log  on  the  fire  and 
went  to  bed. 

While  the  scene  I  have  been  describing  was  enacting  in  the 
room,  there  was  quite  as  strange  a  one  going  on  outside.  A 
window  on  the  north  side  of  Arnot' s  room  opened  upon  the 
roof  of  a  back  porch.  The  blinds  of  this  window  had  been 
securely  nailed,  but  by  accident  they  had  been  left  so  they 
could  be  sprung,  so  that  if  there  was  a  light  in  the  room  one 
from  without  might  see  what  was  doing  within,  without  being 
himself  visible.  Growing  here  by  this  porch  was  a  great 
spreading  chestnut,  and  some  of  the  branches  reached  over 
upon  the  roof,  so  that  nothing  was  easier  than  to  go  from 
them  upon  the  roof,  and  to-_Arnot's  window.  It  seems 
strange  that  Arnot,  so  cautious,  had  not  seen  this,  and  ciit 
the  limbs  off.  But  if  Dr.  Webster  had  only  broken  the  leg- 
bone  of  his  victim,  making  it  impossible  to  identify  the 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  107 

height,  he  could  not  have  been  convicted  of  murder.  In 
nothing  does  fate  mock  endeavor  more  than  in  this,  that,  do 
all  we  can,  study  and  calculate  as  we  will,  something  so  plain 
as  to  be  staring  us  in  the  face  will  be  left  unobserved.  So  it 
was  with  Arnot.  Not  for  the  half  of  his  fortune  would  he 
have  left  his  room  so  that  he  could  be  watched  from  without. 
And  yet  here  was  the  tree,  with  branches  almost  like  a 
flight  of  steps,  from  which  you  might  step  upon  the  roof, 
and  to  the  window.  And  the  blinds  were  left  so  that  they 
might  be  sprung ;  and,  as  if  to  make  everything  perfectly 
secure  against  himself,  the  blinds  were  shut  and  nailed, 
so  that  one  on  the  outside  would  not  be  in  any  danger  of 
discovery  from  having  the  blinds  suddenly  opened  from 
within. 

The  old  man  stood  at  the  window,  and  watched  the  scene 
I  have  been  describing.  He  heard  what  Arnot  was  saying, 
and  followed  him  thus :  "  '  No  memory ' — ha  !  I  woulu  you 
had  a  thousand  ;  for  that  ever  you  did  one  good  thing  I  will 
not  believe.  '  Suppose  it  had  not  been ' — why,  then,  I  had 
not  been  here — I  had  been  at  home,  my  children  with  me — 
and  you  been  hung  for  some  lesser  crime  than  that  you'll 
shortly  die  for.  '  Three  years ' — ha !  I  think  it's  three 
times  three — three  years,  sayest  thou  ? — bring  it  nearer — make 
it  three  months — three  days.  '  Misfortune  only  counter 
feit  of  suffering' — good,  my  Lord.  '  Who  hath  seen  the  past  ? ' 
• — two  of  us  here,  iny  Lord,  I  think  have  seen  something 
of  it.  '  There  is  no  future  ' — ay,  my  Lord,  there  by  chance 
you  have  once  hit  upon  the  truth,  for  I  think  there  is  little 
left  for  thee.  There.  You  will  sleep,  will  you  ?  I  will  watch 
thee — for  this  have  I  followed  thee.  I  would  thou  hadst  ten 
thousand  lives,  that  thou  mightst  thus  be  forever  living  and 
dying.  But  my  soul  so  thirsts  for  thee,  it  will  not  be  delayed. 
No  !  Though  a  legion  of  hissing  adders  pursued  thee,  thou 


108  £A   ERA. 

shouldst  not  live  another  day.  Now  he  wakes.  'Fancy 
thyself  a  child ' — will  you?  Why,  so  thou  canst — but  not  a 
devil — for  that  thou  art  already.  '  Prayer  ! ' — now  thai^k  thee, 
my  Lord,  for  this.  We'll  niock  thee.  '  Lost — lost ' — nay, 
thou  shalt  not  be  so  lost  but  what  the  hawks  and  wolves 
will  find  thee.  'Alone — in  eternity' — oh,  be  not  troubled, 
the  devil  will  provide  thee  company.  '  But  the  soul's  immor 
tal  ' — why,  so  it  is — but  the  body's  mortal — and  that  thou 
shalt  know  before  another  moon  shall  rise  and  set.  '  What 
is  death  ? '  Ay — ay — I  think  you  can  answer  that  better  when 
the  moon  shall  hang  over  Indian  Swamp,  and  thou  under 
it.  '  My  child ' — what's  here  ? — I  would  I  had  not  lost  that 
— I  would  I  had  heard  it.  '  My  pretty  child  ! ' — will  you  say 
that  again?  No — he  is  going  to  bed." 

"  I'll  not  forget  thee  there,  my  pretty  child — my  own 
sweet  baby-girl."  This  was  what  Arnot  said.  But  the  latter 
part  of  the  sentence  was  not  heard  by  the  old  man.  Why  ? 
Only  a  gust  of  wind.  Was  this  gust  of  wind,  then,  a  special 
providence  ?  Not  at  all.  Or  was  it — which  some  will 
doubtless  think  more  likely — a  special  interference  of  the 
devil?  No  more  than  the  other.  And  yet  these  words — 
"  My  own  sweet  baby-girl " — were  most  important  to  be 
heard.  They  were  the  very  words,  of  all  that  was  said  by 
James  Arnot  that  night,  that  ought  to  have  been  heard,  one 
would  think,  for  more  lives  than  one  depended  upon  them ; 
and  but  for  that  vicious  gust  of  wind  the  next  chapter,  and 
all  the  succeeding  chapters  of  the  lives  of  these  people,  had 
been  wholly  different.  Thus  do  we  often  come  near  to  our 
better  destiny,  and  then  are  whirled  forever  away  by  things 
as  light  as  a  gust  of  wind.  But  think  not  that  this  was 
special  providence  or  devil's  trick.  The  wind  would  have 
blown  just  the  same  if  Arnot  had  said  anything  else,  just  the 
same  as  if  he  had  made  any  common  observation,  or  the  kit- 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  109 

ten  mewed.  The  old  man  descended  from  the  roof.  Two 
dusky  figures  from  the  thick  shade  of  a  great  oak  hard 
by  approached  him.  The  three  walked  off  together  some 
hundred  yards,  and  sat  down  in  a  thick  clump  of  under 
growth. 


110  A   LKA. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


"  For  my  part,  I  am  certain  that  God  hath  given  us  onr  reason  to  discern  between 
truth  and  falsehood  ;  and  he  that  makes  not  this  use  of  it,  but  believes  things  he  knows 
not  why,  I  say  it  is  by  chance  that  he  believes  the  truth,  and  not  by  choice  ;  and  I  can 
not  but  fear  that  God  will  not  accept  of  this  sacrifice  of  fools." — CmmNGWOKTH. 


"And  thus  the  whole  world  forms  a  necessary  chain,  in  which  indeed  each  man  may 
play  his  part,  but  can  by  110  means  determine  what  that  part  shall  be." — BUCKLE. 


"  I  FEAR  you  have  been  reading  infidel  works  too  much," 
said  Clarence  Hall  to  Mirabeau  Holmes,  taking  up  the  remark 
of  the  latter  that  he  found  himself  involved  in  an  "  involun 
tary  skepticism." 

"  The  truth  is,  Hall,  and  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to  it,  that 
religion  with  individuals  is  a  matter  of  geography,  and  with 
nations  a  matter  of  civilization." 

"  You  must  admit,  though,  that  there  is  some  one  religion 
which  is  true,  and  being  true,  agreeable  to  God." 

"  If  there  is  such  religion  it  must  follow  that  God  has  so 
distinguished  it,  by  signs  and  tokens,  from  all  other  religions, 
as  to  be  recognized  by  the  commonest  minds." 

"  So  He  has  manifested  it,  by  miracles  that  can  only  be 
attributed  to  the  Author  of  Nature." 

"  Yes  ;  but  these  manifestations  ought  to  be  equally  obvi- 
otis  to  all  mankind,  and  common  to  all  times  and  places.  As 
for  miracles — alas,  alas  !  I  never  saw  a  miracle  in  my  life  ; 
and  I  never  saw  anvbody  that  e"ver  saw  one." 

"  But  others  have  seen  them ;  there  are  crowds  of  wit 
nesses.  These  facts  are  as  well  attested  as  any  historical 
facts  whatever." 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  Ill 

"  Pardon  me  ;  I  have  not  found  them  so  well  attested.  All 
religions  have  rested  their  credibility  upon  miracles,  and  their 
most  learned  followers  at  least  believe  that  they  rest  firmly ; 
for  they  say  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  authenticity  of 
the  miracles.  But  then  suppose  they  did  occur,  how  are 
we  to  know  whether  they  are  from  God  or  from  the  devil  ? 
for  the  Bible  itself  tells  us  that  they  may  be  performed  also 
by  the  latter.  You  tell  me  that  God  hath  spoken.  He  hath 
not  spoken  to  me.  You  say  He  hath  appointed  others  to 
teach  me  His  word.  How  am  I  to  know  that  they  are  not 
impostors  ?  You  say  that  I  am  secured  from  that  by  His 
manifesting  the  mission  of  His  messengers  by  miracles  and 
prophecies.  But  those  who  claim  to  be  such  messengers  do 
not  work  miracles.  If  one  of  them  should  come  and  ha 
rangue  us  in  the  following  manner :  '  I  come,  ye  mortals,  to 
announce  to  you  the  will  of  the  Most  High ;  acknowledge  in  my 
voice  that  of  Him  who  sent  me.  I  command  the  sun  to  move 
backwards,  the  stars  to  change  their  places,  the  mountains  to 
disappear,  the  waves  to  remain  fixed  on  high,  and  the  earth 
to  wear  a  different  aspect !  '  Who  would  not  believe  this 
man  to  be  a  messenger  of  God  if  he  should  work  such  mir 
acles  ?  As  for  prophecies :  how  am  I  to  know  they  were 
not  written  after  the  events  prophesied  ?  Or  how  am  I  to 
know  that,  even  if  the  event  did  happen  as  prophesied,  there 
was  not  an  accidental  concurrence  ?  to  say  nothing  of  the  fact 
that  if  the  prophecies  in  the  Bible  have  any  meaning  at  all,  it 
is  so  vague  as  to  escape  anybody  but  a  most  profound  typolo- 
giaii.  But  all  these  things  are  related  in  books.  Who  wrote 
these  books  ?  Men.  But  many  others,  besides  those  we  have, 
claim  to  be  genuine ;  who  decided  which  were  genuine  and 
which  not  ?  Men.  They  are  written  in  languages  that  are 
dead,  nowhere  understood.  Who  translated  them  ?  Men. 
Always  human  testimony  !  It  is  always  men  that  tell  me 


112  £A   IE  A. 

what  other  men  told  them  !  What  a  number  of  these  are 
always  between  me  and  the  Deity  !  We  are  always  reduced 
to  the  necessity  of  examining,  comparing,  and  verifying  such 
evidence.  I  tell  you,  Hall,  I  have  almost  said  with  the  Savoy 
ard,  '  Oh,  that  God  had  deigned  to  have  saved  me  all  this 
trouble  !  Should  I  have  served  Him  with  a  less  willing  heart  ? ' 
1  scarcely  know  what  I  believe  ;  but  I  know  one  thing  that  I 
do  not  believe.  I  cannot  believe  that  the  dark,  vindictive, 
partial,  jealous,  angry,  bloody  God  of  the  old  Hebrews  is  the 
all-wise  and  all-benevolent  God  of  the  universe.  I  cannot 
believe  in  Judaism  ;  every  God-implanted  principle  of  my 
being  revolts  at  it.  I  wish  that  Jesus  had  cut  loose  from  it 
entirely ;  the  problem  would  have  been  easier.  There,  I  have 
said  more  to  you  on  this  subject  than  I  ever  have  said  to  any 
body  else.  God  knows  how  I  long  to  know  the  truth  ;  and 
He  knows,  too,  that  I  have  sought  it  earnestly,  and  shall  con 
tinue  to.  Will  He  condemn  me  if  I  fail  to  find  it  ?  " 

Hall  was  just  going  to  answer  this  long  speech,  when  Fred 
Van  Comer  entered  with — 

"  I  heard  you  say  something  about '  my  old  ancestors'  as  I 
came  up  the  steps.  No  remarks.  Remember,  as  Disraeli  says, 
*  Mine  were  princes  in  the  temple,  when  yours  were  naked  sav 
ages  on  the  British  Islands.'  But  I  am  thinking  now  more 
about  posterity  than  ancestry.  1  think  I  shall  marry." 

"  Ah  !  I  think  you  said  some  time  ago  that  marriage  was 
the  chief  end  of  life,"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  Yes ;  but  to  change  one's  opinions  is  generally  to  cor 
rect  one's  errors.  After  consulting  my  attorney  I  say  that 
marriage  ought  to  be,  according  to  the  statute,  the  chief  be 
ginning  of  life.  I  have  been  thinking  if  ever  any  bachelors 
became  great.  How  is  it,  Hall  ?"" 

"  Well,  there  is  your  great  exemplar  and  apostle,  Buckle, 
who  is  a  bachelor." 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  113 

"  So  lie  is.  But  one  must  look  to  tlie  French  Revolution 
for  great  men.  Let  me  see.  There  was  Mirabeau.  He  had 
to  make  temporary  arrangements  with  Sophie  De  Rufley,  and 
others  too  numerous  to  mention.  I  reckon  he  was  never  out 
done  by  anybody  but  Solomon.  Voltaire  tried  bacheloring, 
I  believe ;  but  he  had  to  take  up,  in  a  more  quiet  way, 
though,  than  the  man  of  the  Tennis  Court,  with  that  old  coun 
tess.  And  look  there  at  Jean  Jacques.  If  he  had  not  had 
any  children  to  send  into  the  street  maybe  he  would  not 
have  written  the  Contrat  iSociale  /  and  one  cannot  see  how  a 
man  so  simple  as  never  to  be  able  to  tell  the  difference  be 
tween  the  price  of  three  onions  and  a  leg  of  mutton,  was 
ever  to  get  any  at  all,  without  some  sort  of  a  wife  to  help  him. 
But  I  just  came  in  here  to  tell  you,  Holmes,  that  I  have  made 
an  engagement  for  xis  to  go  to  Mrs.  Malcomb's  to-night." 

"  The  mischief  you  have  !      Why,  I  have  an  engagement 
myself  to  go  to  General  Clement's." 
,    "  Nobody  going  with  you  ?  " 

"  lSTo." 

"  You  must  break  it.  Of  two  evils  choose  the  lesser.  I 
signed  your  name  to  the  note,  and  mine  too.  If  you  break 
the  engagement  you  made,  there  will  be  but  one  word 
broken ;  but  if  you  break  the  one  both  of  us  made,  there  will 
be  two  lies  told." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  back  from  Eu 
rope  ?  "  said  Fred,  as  he  and  Mirabeau  walked  home  from 
Mr.  Malcomb's  next  evening. 

"  That  depends.     What  do  you  think  of  journalism  ?  " 

"  That  is  going  to  be  the  biggest  thing  in  this  country. 
The  orator's  occupation's  gone.  The  newspaper  press  will 
make  pi-esidents  and  congresses  from  this  on." 

"  But  you  have  some  experience  as  an  editor ;  why  did 
you  come  back  here  from  Etowah  ?  " 


114  9  A   IK  A. 

"  You  see  they  got  it  out  up  there  that  I  did  not  believe 
in  the  Trinity,  and  they  ruined  my  business.  That  village  has 
two  thousand  inhabitants — mostly  Methodist  preachers.  Now 
it  so  happened  that  I  had  three  partners,  and  all  three  of 
them  Methodist  preachers.  They  pretended  to  think  I  was 
about  to  be  lost ;  they  prayed  for  me  in  public  and  cheated 
me  out  of  my  part  of  the  profits  in  private.  One  of  them, 
old  Watt,  would  never  let  an  advertisement  of  a  liquor- 
house  go  in  the  paper,  while  he  was  a  regular  red-nosed 
toper.  They  never  had  any  amusements  up  there ;  they 
said  first-class  people  didn't  dance.  They  had  what  they 
called  sanctification  meetings.  And  because  I  would  not  go 
to  them  they  considered  me  as  good  as  damned  already.  But 
one  of  them  bought  two  large  lexicons  from  me,  Greek  and 
Latin,  worth,  you  know,  about  twelve  dollars  apiece.  I  told 
him  to  take  them  on  witli  him  to  college,  and  some  time  he 
might  pay  me  what  they  were  worth.  He  said  they  were 
worth  two  dollars  apiece  down  there,  and  cheated  me  out  of  my, 
books  accordingly.  He  was  one  of  the  sanctification  leaders. 
One  Stinday  the  preacher  preached  a  sermon  at  my  partners 
from  the  text,  '  Be  ye  not  unequally  yoked  with  unbelievers,' 
calling  us  by  name  all  the  way  through.  One  day  I  loaned 
one  of  my  books — it  was  Buckle's  Essays — to  a  young  fellow 
there,  and  it  was  all  over  town  in  no  time  that  John  Moon 
was  reading  Yan  Comer's  infidel  books.  That  night  he  was 
seized  upon  by  half  a  dozen — the  fellow  that  cheated  me  out  of 
my  books  among  them — and  carried  by  prayers  and  a  sufficient 
amount  of  main  force — as  Yoltaire  said  of  the  incantations, 
administered  with  arsenic,  destroying  a  flock  of  sheep — to  a 
*  sanctification  '  meeting.  But  when  T  went  to  Washington, 
and  wrote  back  to  my  paper  that  I  had  called  upon  President 
Grant,  and  intimated  my  belief  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  that 
was  the  feather  that  broke  the  camel's  back.  They  wanted  to 


DATTGHTEK   AND   SON.  115 

tar  and  feather  me  for  it.     In  short,  that  little  ville  is  like  the 
prince  of  the  Spanish  breed,  devout,  orthodox,  and  ignorant. 
"  But  surely,  they  did  not  carry  all  their  sectarian  zeal 
into  business  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  they  did.  Not  that  they  were  also  ignorant  in 
business — they  were  shrewd  enough ;  they  prayed  with  one 
eye  open.  I  heard  a  lawyer  say  that  he  had  to  go  up  to  be 
prayed  for  at  every  '  protracted '  meeting,  else  his  practice 
would  be  broken  down.  Bless  you !  they  sing  sol  fa  la  and 
shout  up  there  yet !  " 

"  Have  you  ever  been  up  there  since  you  left  ?  " 
"  Bless  my  soul !  I  haven't  told  you  about  it.  Yes ;  I  just 
got  back  from  up  there  this  morning.  I  went  there  to  write 
up  a  scandal  case — the  local  paper  would  not  publish  it  be 
cause  a  preacher  was  into  it — the  worst  case  you  ever  heard 
of.  You  will  see  it  in  the  morning.  I  put  it  in  great  black 
letters  this  way  :  '  In  the  lurch ' — '  A  preacher  trapped  ' — 
'  Beautiful  maiden  seduced  by  a  Rev.  brother-in-law  ' — '  A 
case  of  eight  years'  standing' — 'Begun  when  the  girl  was 
only  fourteen ' — '  Moonlight  rides  to  night-meetings ' — '  The 
scoundrel  fled ' — '  The  girl  arrested  and  bound  over  to 
Court' — 'Two  of  the  best  families  plunged  in  grief — '  &c., 
&c.'  The  mischief!  I  wish  I  had  shown  it  to  you  before  it 
was  put  in.  I  have  not  told  you  half  of  the  heading  even." 
"  You  have  an  awful  array  of  it.  But  who  on  earth  can 
they  be  ?  " 

"  The  man's  name  is  Squalls,  and  " 

"  Stop  !      Squalls — Squalls — did  you  say  ?  " 
"  Yes  ;  Squalls — John  E.  Squalls,  I  believe." 
"Well,  well!     Who  would  have  thought  it*  of  that  little, 
tallow-faced,  wheezy  scamp  V  " 
"  What !  did  you  know  him  ?  " 
"I  have  seen  him.     His  present  wife  was  Kate  Fletcher, 


116  <JA   IRA. 

one  of  the  prettiest  girls  I  ever  saw.  I  went  to  school  with 
her  once.  She  was  my  sweetheart  when  I  was  a  boy.  I 
would  like  to  see  her  now.  I  am  so  sorry  for  her.  How 
does  she  look  ?  " 

There  is  something  inexpressibly  tender  about  a  school 
boy's  love.  It  is  the  purest,  most  ethereal,  most  utterly  un 
selfish  feeling  ever  experienced  by  the  human  heart.  And 
when  the  remembrance  of  it  comes  back  to  us,  hallowed  by 
time,  nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  or  more  touching. 
Like  the  most  distant  star,  its  light  will  struggle,  it  may  bo, 
for  scores  of  years  through  the  gloomiest  voids,  the  rays 
never  wandering  to  mar  its  beauty,  and  come  straight  to  us, 
beaming  upon  the  heart  with  ineffable  tenderness.  It  may 
be,  dear  reader,  that  you  have  already  gone  far  into  the 
winter  months  of  life.  But  that  matters  nothing.  Look 
back  to  your  school-boy  days,  and  for  a  moment  you  may  be 
a  boy  again.  Think  of  your  school-girl  sweetheart.  It  may 
be  fifty  winters  since  you  have  seen  her.  She  may  be  old, 
and  wrinkled,  and  gray.  Suppose  you  met  her  on  the  street 
to-morrow  ?  You  would  not  see  the  age,  nor  the  wrinkles, 
nor  the  gray.  For  you  have  loved  her  once;  and  you  would 
see  the  pretty  girl  on  the  old  playground.  Let  me  tell  you 
— I  hope  you  know  it  already — if  your  heart  did  not  throb 
with  a  feeling  it  has  not  known  for  all  these  years,  you  are 
yet  a  stranger  to  the  rarest  flower  that  ever  bloomed  in  the 
garden  of  the  heart,  the  sweetest  notes  that  ever  melted 
from  its  tenderest  chords.  .  .  . 

Arnot  went  to  bed,  and  was  soon  in  a  troubled  sleep. 
And  now  we  may  look  around  us.  The  door  was  strongly 
bolted  and  double-barred.  Under  his  pillow  Arnot  had 
placed  an  unsheathed  dagger-and  a  large  pistol,  the  mate  to 
which  was  laid  on  the  bed  within  reach  of  his  right  hand. 
A  repeating-gun  rested  against  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  oa 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  117 

the  table  were  two  other  large  army-pistols.  On  the  mantel 
•was  a  looking-glass  and  a  pair  of  vases  full  of  wild-flowers 
gathered  that  morning  from  some  nooks  and  coves  in  the 
hills  where  they  had  been  protected  from  the  cold  winds. 
There  were  also  upon  the  table  a  small  escritoire  and  the  Bible 
we  have  seen.  A  couple  of  chairs,  an  old  wardrobe,  a  trunk, 
and  some  pieces  of  carpet,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room. 
When  Arnot  waked  he  was  shaking  with  cold  and  fright. 
He  sat  upon  the  side  of  the  bed.  He  looked  at  the  pistol 
which  he  had  tightly  grasped  in  his  hand,  and  found  that  he 
had  broken  off  the  trigger.  It  was  this  that  had  waked 
him.  He  had  dreamed  a  horrible,  fearful  dream.  He  tried 
to  recall  it :  a  band  of  armed  negroes  seemed  to  enter  his 
room  from  the  north  window.  He  saw  them  plainly ;  saw 
them  hoisting  the  window,  entering,  and  approaching,  and  yet 
he  could  not  stir  in  his  bed.  It  seemed  that  there  was  one 
old  friend  among  them;  one  that  mocked  and  jeered  him 
bitterly.  It  was  a  clear,  bright  night.  They  carried  him, 
with  a  cord  about  his  neck,  to  Indian  Swamp.  They  placed 
him  upon  a  cross-piece  supported  by  forks,  and  tied  the  cord 
to  a  high  limb  overhead.  There  was  a  great  crowd  of  them. 
They  had  pans  and  bones,  and  they  danced  and  sang  around 
him.  Suddenly  he  seemed  to  think  of  his  power  of  ven 
triloquism.  He  made  a  noise  as  of  some  one  approaching ; 
repeated  it — louder  and  louder — and  from  different  quarters, 
till  fear  seized  upon  the  negroes,  and  they  fled  in  all  direc 
tions.  What  then?  His  arms  were  bound  tightly  at  his 
back.  To  die — to  die — to  die — alone  in  that  dreadful 
swamp !  Days  and  nights  passed.  He  was  perishing  of 
hunger.  He  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  His  eyes  grew  dim. 
He  was  blind.  He  felt  the  flapping  of  the  wings  of  the  night- 
birds.  He  heard  the  chilling  scream  of  the  eagle  overhead 
— the  cries  of  the  hawk  and  panther — the  growling,  barking, 


118  ^A    IRA. 

and  fighting  of  a  thousand  wolves,  all  around  and  under 
him  ;  he  felt  them  clawing  and  gnawing  at  the  stakes  which 
supported  him.  Then  there  came  a  lull — dimness  and 
silence.  He  fell — and  the  darkness  rolled  over  him. 

Arnot  knew  not  how  long  he  had  slept.  The  gusty  wind 
had  sunk  into  a  monotonous  dirge.  The  moon  rested  in  the 
fringe  of  the  western  mountains.  The  log  he  had  lain  upon 
the  fire  when  he  went  to  bed  had  burnt  down,  and  there  was 
no  light  in  the  room  except  the  red  glare  of  the  dying  coals. 
The  moon  shone  in  through  the  blinds  of  the  western  win 
dows  ;  and  its  shadows,  mingling  and  contending  with  the 
deeper  ones  of  the  coals  in  the  hearth,  formed  many  a  weird, 
fantastic  figure  upon  the  walls  and  floor.  Arnot  looked 
around  the  room ;  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  picture  on  the  oppo 
site  wall,  and  almost  started  from  their  sockets.  Horror  of 
horrors!  He  seemed  to  see  among  the  fantastic  shadows  his 
own  name.  It  was  plain,  perfectly  plain,  for  an  instant,  and 
then  vanished.  It  was  directly  under  the  young  Spaniard 
with  the  long  hair,  in  the  picture.  Then  he  saw  his  whole 
dream  in  the  picture.  He  was  transfixed  with  dread.  There 
was  the  very  pole  he  had  stood  upon ;  it  was  full  of  small 
knots  that  hurt  his  feet.  The  negroes  had  run  away,  just  us 
the  Indians  were  in  the  act  of  doing  here.  The  veiy  eagle  on 
top  of  the  dead  tree  seemed  to  scream.  And  there  was  a  flap 
ping  of  wings  among  the  trees.  He  got  off  the  bed.  He  was 
numb  and  cold.  He  went  and  sat  down  before  the  fire.  Why 
did  he  not  make  a  light  ?  Only  because  he  never  thought  of 
it.  And  yet  it  would  have  altered  things  strangely  if  he  had. 
He  put  his  feet  to  the  coals,  and  tried  to  think  over  all  that 
had  happened  that  night.  He  went  over  his  dream  again 
and  again  ;  and  now  for  the  "first  time  their  coming  in  at  the 
north  window  impressed  itself  upon  his  mind.  Why  at  the 
window  ?  Why  at  the  north  window  ?  And  then,  quick  as 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  119 

thought,  he  was  at  the  window  examining.  He  seemed  to 
take  in  the  whole  situation  at  a  glance.  The  chestnut  tree ; 
the  limbs  reaching  upon  the  roof;  the  blinds  sprung,  so  that 
one  from  without  could  observe  all  that  was  going  on  within ; 
the  blinds  nailed,  so  that  there  was  no  danger  of  being  sud 
denly  opened  from  within.  Moreover,  nothing  would  be  easier 
than  to  come  upon  this  roof,  draw  out  the  two  poor  little 
nails,  and  rush  or  slip  in  and  murder  him  in  his  bed.  What 
a  fool  he  had  been  !  All  his  precautions  had  gone  for  noth 
ing.  He  put  on  his  clothes  ;  went  to  get  one  of  the  pistols 
from  the  table  to  put  in  his  belt,  in  place  of  the  one  he  had 
broken  in  his  dream,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  the  Bible  he  had 
left  there.  He  picked  it  up,  muttering  to  himself,  "  The  first 
time. I  have  read  a  word  of  it  in  years,  and  see  what  a  night 
it  has  brought  me."  Then  he  thought  to  throw  it  in  the  fire. 
He  stopped. 

"  But  my  mother  gave  it  me.  She  would  not  have  had  me 
pass  a  night  like  this,  for  she  always  loved  me — and — God 
knows — she  may  even  be  thinking  of  me  to-night,  somewhere. 
Her  name  is  in  it — I  cannot  burn  that." 

Then  Arnot  quickly  turned  to  the  fly-leaf;  he  tore  it  out, 
folded  it  neatly,  kissed  it,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket-book.  The 
rest  he  threw  into  the  fire,  where  it  began  to  smoulder  among 
the  coals  and  ashes.  But  he  could  not  but  think  of  the  win 
dow.  And  thinking  how  easy  it  was  to  draw  the  nails  and 
open  it,  it  occurred  to  him  to  examine  it  again.  He  did  ex 
amine  it ;  and  he  not  only  found  that  the  nails  were  already 
loosened,  but  he  thought  he  detected  that  they  had  been  tam 
pered  with  from  the  inside  instead  of  the  out.  He  thought 
of  the  old  man  in  his  dream,  and  the  whole  truth  seemed  to. 
ish  into  his  mind.  Quick,  quick  !  There  was  not  a  mo- 

Bnt  to  be  lost.  They  might  even  now  be  in  sight.  Arnot 
glided  quickly  down-stairs.  He  looked  cautiously  around 


120  gA  IKA. 

him,  and  not  seeing  or  hearing  anything,  he  went  to  the  old 
man's  door  and  knocked.  Getting  no  answer,  he  turned  the 
bolt  and  entered.  The  bed  had  not  been  slept  upon.  His 
suspicions  were  now  confirmed.  He  believed  there  was  a 
plot  on  foot  to  murder  him,  and  that  the  old  man  was  at  the 
head  of  it.  And  now  he  remembered  a  fierce,  half  hungry, 
half-mocking  gleam  he  had  sometimes  seen  in  the  old  man's 
eye,  at  times  when  he  thought  himself  unobserved.  He  be 
lieved  that  the  work  was  to  be  done  this  very  night,  for  he 
had  never  known  the  old  man  to  leave  his  room  before  at 
night.  He  looked  to  where  his  pistols  were  accustomed  to 
hang  at  the  head  of  his  bed,  and  they  were  not  in  their  place. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  if  they  came  at  all  they  would  come 
to  his  window. 

The  moon  had  now  gone  down  behind  the  mountains,  whose 
vast  shadow  rested  upon  the  lower  hills  and  valleys.  Arnot 
came  out  of  the  old  man's  room,  and  keeping  as  much  as  pos 
sible  in  the  deeper  shade  of  the  trees,  moved  off  some  distance 
and  lay  flat  upon  the  ground.  He  watched,  and  listened. 
He  would  have  gone  to  a  clump  of  trees  further  off  and  di 
rectly  in  front  of  his  window,  but  his  quick  perception  told 
him  that  that  would  probably  be  the  very  covert  from  which 
they  would  come.  It  was,  in  fact,  just  where  the  three  men 
had  gone.  Suddenly  there  was  a  light  in  Arnot's  room ;  and 
one  of  the  three  men,  coming  out  of  the  thicket  to  see  what  it 
meant,  was  himself  seen  by  Arnot.  The  light  soon  went  out. 
It  was  probably  only  a  leaf  from  the  book  Arnot  had  thrown 
into  the  fire.  Arnot's  heart  thumped  against  his  ribs  as  he 
saw  three  men  emerge  from  the  thicket  and  Advance  towards 
the  house.  They  walked  slowly.  They  were  talking  low ;  but 
Arnot  heard  them.  Two  of  them  were  negroes. 

"  They  ought  to  have  been  here  to-night.  This  delay  may 
ruin  everything.  I  only  loosened  the  window  this  morning — • 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  121 

while  he  was  off  down  there  under  the  hill  after  flowers.  He 
goes  down  there  every  morning  when  he  is  here.  If  I  had 
known  they  were  not  coming,  I  would  have  waited  till  to-mor 
row.  He  sees  everything,  and  may  look  to  the  window  be 
fore  to-morrow  night." 

"  S'pose  we  git  him  when  he  goes  down  thar  ?  " 

"  That  will  not  do,  for  two  reasons  :  in  the  first  place,  we 
might  miss  him ;  and  if  we  did,  I  can  tell  you  he  would  not 
miss  us.  In  the  next  place,  we  want  to  take  him  to  the 
Swamp."  . 

They  now  came  to  the  great  chestnut,  and  stopped.  The 
old  man  then  pointed  out  to  them  how  they  were  to  go  upon, 
the  roof,  and  in  at  the  window.  The  night  was  still,  and 
Arnot  could  hear  every  word  they  said. 

•'  Remember — just  at  twelve.  The  moon,  from  that  chestnut 
by  the  thicket,  will  be  just  in  the  top  of  yonder  pine.  I  will 
be  there  with  the  shadow  from  that  tree.  Don't  bring  more 
than  six  with  you.  Any  number  may  meet  us  at  the  Swamp 
— but  don't  bring  more  than  six  here." 

"  But  dat  devil — shore  yer  got  der  winder  loosen  ?  " 

Yes.     He  will  not  have  time  to  turn  in  his  bed.     I  have 
lot  followed  him  this  long  for  nothing ;  and  many  a  one  of 

u  has  he  sent  home." 

"  He  won't  send  no  mo'.  What  we  guine  do  wid  him  when 
dead  ?  " 

u  Leave  him  to  the  hawks  and  wolves,  as  the  fortune-teller 
lid  must  be  done." 

Arnot  placed  himself  behind  the  tree  from  them,  and 
jounded  forward,  swift  as  the  wind,  sure  as  the  spring  of  the 

inther,  and  noiseless  as  a  tiger  on  carpet  of  felt.     Quick  and 
clear  the  shots  rang  upon  the  midnight  air.      Two  of  the  men 
3!!  upon  the   spot.     One  negro  fled,  crying,  "  Murder,  mur- 
ler  !  "     Another  shot — he  seemed  to  spring  into  the  air,  and 
fi 


122  <?A   IEA. 

fell  heavily  upon  his  face — and  James  Arnot  knew  well  its 
meaning.  He  went  to  see,  and  he  was  not  mistaken.  When 
he  returned,  the  old  man  was  sitting  bolt  upright  against  the 
tree.  Arnot  approached  him.  He  was  stone  dead.  As  to 
what  led  the  old  man  to  this  fifth  act  in  his  life-tragedy, 
Arnot  could  not  conjecture.  The  truth  never  occurred  to 
him — that  it  was  all  a  mistake.  So  it  is,  in  deepest  tragedy, 
and  in  lightest  comedy ;  the  parts  we  play  ai»-  our  own  by  ne 
cessity. 


DAUGHTER  AND   SON.  123 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Seek  a  good  wife  of  thy  God,  for  she  is  the  best  gift  of  his  providence." 

"Oh,  two  such  silver  currents,  when  they  join, 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in." 

— K.  John. 

I  AM  going  to  relate,  perhaps,  the  most  important  event 
since  Adam.  If  men  were  prophets,  such  as  many  of  the 
old  Hebrews  are  reported  to  have  been,  or  if  they  could 
take  any  ordinary  act  whatever  and  trace  it  out  to  its  remo 
test  consequences,  would  it  afford  them  more  matter  for 
thought  and  wonderment  than  they  now  find  in  tracing  back 
wards?  or  even  than  the  taking  of  any  small  historical  fact 
and  tracing  it  to  its  known  consequences  ?  Take  the  mar 
riage  of  two  German  peasants,  Luther's  parents.  Could 
anything  be  more  in  the  ordinary  way  ?  And  yet  see  the 
consequences !  Not,  to  be  sure,  but  what  the  Reformation 
would  have  been,  even  if  Luther  had  never  been  born  ;  for  it 
would.  But  not  like  it  was.  It  is  quite  certain  that  if 
Martin  Liither's  parents  had  never  been  married ;  or,  con 
sidering  the  laxity  of  the  times,  if  they  had  never  seen  each 
other ;  or,  to  make  the  matter  perfectly  safe,  remembering 
that  some  people  prefer  darkness  to  light,  because,  etc.,  if 
they  had  never  come  within  ten  statute  miles  of  each  other, 
Martin  Luther  never  would  have  been  the  head  of  the 
Reformation.  Consider  for  a  moment — it  is  worth  your 
while — the  extraordinary  state  of  the  case.  The  father 
would  probably  have  married  some  other  woman ;  the 
mother  some  other  man.  Or,  failing  in  this,  they  would 


124  gA  IRA. 

naturally  have  adopted  a  policy  as  nearly  like  it  as  the 
circumstances  would  admit.  In  either  case  it  is  easy  to 
perceive  that  it  would  have  been  with  the  child,  Martin,  at  a 
somewhat  earlier  period  though,  pretty  much  as  King  Solo 
mon  proposed  to  do  with  that  one  for  which  the  women 
contended.  But  in  such  case,  as  to  which  half,  upper  or 
lower,  would  have  gone  this  way,  and  which  that,  I  leave  to 
be  speculated  upon  by  the  curious  reader;  being  myself  only 
certain  of  this,  that  if  the  common  people  of  Germany  of 
that  day  were  no  better  off  than  the  people  of  this  Republic 
at  this — six  millions  of  whom  can  neither  read  nor  write, 
and  twice  that  number  having  no  more  notion  of  the  multi 
plication  table  than  an  infant  clam  has  of  the  binomial  theo 
rem — there  was  not  much  choice  either  way,  head  or  heels. 

The  capital  of  Georgia,  at  that  notable  period  of  its  his 
tory  of  which  I  am  now  writing,  had  twenty  thousand 
inhabitants,  counting  the  women,  and  one  hundred  anil 
twenty  lawyers;  that  is,  six  lawyers  to  every  thousand 
people.  Now,  take  out  the  women,  and  you  have  six  law 
yers  to  every  five  hundred  people.  Take  out  the  four  chil 
dren  which  statisticians  allow  to  each  family,  and  you  have 
six  lawyers  to  every  one  hundred  people ;  that  is,  three  law 
yers  to  every  fifty  people ;  that  is,  one  lawyer  to  every 
sixteen  and  two-thirds  people — but  as  this  fraction  of  a  man 
was  likely  to  be  hung  where  there  were  so  many  lawyers,  he 
may  be  left  out  of  the  calculation  altogether.  One  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  dollars,  divided  variously,  from  boring 
expenses,  up  to  ten  thousand  dollars,  among  the  one  hun 
dred  and  twenty  lawyers,  was  what  it  annually  cost  this 
devoted  little  city  to  get  its~-disputes  settled,  hang  two-thirds 
of  a  man,  and  set  free  several  whole  ones  who  deserved 
hanging.  Annually,  then,  it  was  necessary  for  this  demo 
cratic,  whirligig  little  city  to  put  its  hand  into  its  small 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  125 

breeches'  pocket — but  here  I  beg  pardon ;  it  becomes  neces 
sary  to  explain.  They  never  did  do  things  here  as  they  did 
anywhere  else.  The  rule  is  for  cities  to  grow  too  big  for 
their  leg-apparel ;  but  here  it  was  just  the  other  way.  It 
happened  in  this  wise.  The  Council,  having  their  own 
patriotic  ends  in  view — but  as  to  what  their  patriotic  ends 
were,  neither  grammarians  nor  rhetoricians  have  provided 
any  decent  way  of  expressing;  but  it  can  be  abundantly 
proven  that  the  Council  had  no  more  patriotism  in  their 
heads  than  a  Pennsylvania  Legislature — the  Council,  having 
their  own  patriotic  ends  in  view,  took  a  pair  of  large,  second 
hand  pants,  cut  the  legs  off  to  make  them  short  enough,  put 
the  pieces  where  they  would  do  the  most  good — after  the 
manner  of  economical  housewives — and  thrust  into  them  the 
tiny  legs  of  this  infant  committed  to  their  charge.  But  the 
Fathers  believed  in  the  eternal  fitness  of  things.  And  so  they 
immediately  formed  several  small  credit  mobiliers  for  stuffing 
these  empty  legs  with  bran  ;  for  the  trousers  hung  shabbily 
about  the  infant's  legs,  presenting  a  disgraceful  appearance. 
The  legs  were  duly  stuffed  with  bran;  that  is,  the  Fathers 
pretended  to  each  other  that  it  was  bran,  but  in  fact  it  was 
nothing  but  shavings  and  sawdust.  J>ut  as  for  the  part 
above  the  confluence  of  the  legs,  that  fell  to  Mr.  Keener,  a 
drygoods  merchant.  Now  this  Keener  had  a  certain  piece 
of  damaged  checks  ;  so  instead  of  stuffing  the  part  in  ques 
tion,  he  simply  made  a  blouse  that  should  reach  below  it ; 
and  for  raw  and  gusty  days  the  pieces  cut  off  the  legs  had 
already  been  put  where  they  did  the  most  good.  And  so  it 
happened  that  this  city  was  duly  dressed  out  in  a  traly  pictu 
resque,  independent,  democratic  fashion.  And  so  it  hap 
pened  that  this  capital  had  to  put  its  hand,  not  into  its 
small,  but  into  its  large,  and,  as  it  were,  empty  pocket,  and 
take  out  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  dollars  for  its 


13fl 

lawyers,  out  of  which  sum  Clarence  Hall  received  about 
five  hundred.  This  was  not  enough  for  Clarence  Hall  to 
marry  on.  But  it  has  been  observed  that  where  there's  a 
will  there's  a  way.  It  was  so  here,  at  any  rate.  And  it  all 
happened  in  manner  and  form  following : 

Among  all  the  scores  of  washerwomen  about  town,  who 
should  Clarence  Hall  have  but  Betsy  Wiley  ?  Betsy  Wiley 
looked  up  to  Clarence  Hall  as  the  very  highest  development  of 
the  man  and  lawyer,  for  Hall  had  learned  this  lesson,  that  if 
you  wish  to  be  popular  with  your  inferiors  you  must  make  them 
believe  that  you  consider  them  of  some  importance.  Betsy's 
husband  was  a  well-to-do  mechanic,  and  lived  down  in  Oak 
street.  It  so  happened,  one  Monday  morning,  that  Betsy  was 
unwell,  though  such  a  thing  had  not  happened,  so  far  as  any 
body  outside  the  family  knew,  since  the  birth  of  her  last  baby; 
and  her  lord  and  master  thought  himself  not  too  good — a 
thing  which  cannot  be  said  of  many  of  his  betters— to  do  for 
one  morning  what  his  wife  had  done  for  scores.  So,  taking 
her  large  basket,  he  went  forth. to  gather  together  the  soiled 
garments  of  the  young  gentlemen  who  weekly  trusted  their 
fortunes  to  Betsy.  That  was  a  fatal  day  for  Dick  Wiley.  He 
was  caught  among  the  numerous  railroads  which  infest  the 
central  portion  of  this  city,  and  was  killed.  Luckily,  he  was 
killed  while  returning  home  ;  after  he  had  been  seen  by  re 
spectable  witnesses  who  could  testify  that  he  was  not  drunk. 
Now  if  Betsy  had  only  gone  after  the  goods  that  morning, 
which  she  would  have  done  if,  of  all  the  mornings  of  the  year, 
she  had  not  been  sick  on  that  identical  morning,  the  whole 
matter  would  have  turned  out  just  as  differently  as  could  be 
conceived  even  by  the  imagination  of  a  Hindu  or  a  Typolo- 
gian. 

Not  many  days  after  the  event  just  recorded,  Van  Comer 
was  in  Hall's  office. 


DAUGHTKK   AND   SON.  127 

"  I  believe,  Hall."  said  Fred,  "  you  are  glad  the  poor  negro 
got  killed." 

"  Not  at  all.  But  as  he  did  get  killed,  I  am  glad  his  wife 
was  my  washerwoman,  and  knew  me  well  enough  to  employ 
me  against  the  road.  It  is  a  good  case,  and  if  they  do  not 
compromise  with  me  at  three  thousand  dollars,  I  will  sue 
them  for  ten,  and  eventually  get  half  of  it." 

"  Why  then  should  you  be  willing  to  take  three  now  ?  " 

"  Because  of  the  delay,  and  some  uncertainty.  Besides,  I 
am  needing  money,  and  I  get  half  of  what  I  recover." 

"  Needing  money  !  Why,  I  hear  everywhere  how  prodi 
giously  you  are  doing.  Some  say  you  are  making  money  like 
a  mint ;  others,  more  definite  in  their  knowledge  perhaps,  say 
you  are  making  six  thousand  a  year." 

"  I  am  making  some  money ;  I  am  saving  a  little,  but  not 
six  thousand  a  year." 

Fred  could  have  gone  on  and  told  his  friend  that  it  was  not 
only  occasionally  to  be  heard  on  the  street,  but  that  it  was 
even  believed,  and  probably  acted  upon,  by  some  friends,  in 
whom  he,  Hall,  was  much  interested.  Fred  knew  that  the 
Dealings  themselves  entertained  the  most  extravagant  notions 
of  Hall's  progress  in  getting  both  reputation  and  money. 
Manifestly  this  was  a  thing  vastly  important  for  Hall  to 
know.  But  one  never  sees  things  but  from  one's  own  stand 
point.  How  was  Fred  to  know  anything  of  the  importance 
of  this  matter  to  his  friend  ?  In  the  first  place,  he  did  not 
know  the  difference  between  Hall's  reported  and  his  actual 
income  ;  he  did  not  dream,  however,  that  it  was  so  great  as  to 
be  almost  ludicrous.  As  for  Hall  himself,  how  was  he,  being 
in  love  with  Annie  Dearing,  and  looking  at  things  from  a  high 
moral  standpoint,  to  know  that  the  Dearings  ever  even  so 
much  as  thought  of  what  his  income  might  be  ?  Here  then 
was  something  of  the  last  importance  for  Clarence  Hall  to 


128  gA  IKA. 

know,  and  his  friend  conld  make  him  know  it ;  but  the  one, 
from  his  standpoint,  seeing  not  its  significance,  and  the  other, 
from  his,  not  even  knowing  of  its  existence,  it  was  passed  by. 
Fred  supposed,  rightly,  that  any  information  Hall  wanted  to 
give,  lie  would  volunteer,  and  so  said  nothing  more  on  the 
subject. 

"  In  such  cases  as  this,  can  you  sue  the  road  for  as  much 
as  you  like  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  the  jury  determines  how  much  the  man  was 
worth  to  his  family,  and  assesses  the  damage  accordingly." 

"  Some  lives,  according  to  that  rule,  would  bankrupt  the 
Erie.  There  is  Mrs.  Sutherland  " — 

"  When  will  you  cease  to  be  extra vagent  in  your  praises  ?  " 

"When  I  cease  to  find  objects  deserving  more  than  I  can 
imagine." 

"  But  in  your  high  estimate  upon  your  chief  of  women, 
the  law  would  come  in  as  a  great  gulf  between  you  and  the 
jury." 

"  Not,  I  hope,  like  that  between  Dives  and  my  old  grand 
father  Abraham's  bosom  is  reported  to  have  been.  But  that 
was  an  ignorant  and  barbarous  age;  we  have  had  pro 
gress  since  then — development — march  of  mind.  If  poor 
Dives  had  only  put  off  being  born,  say  three  or  four  thou 
sand  years — provided,  you  know,  as  Sterne  says,  it  could 
have  been  done  with  any  convenience  to  his  father  and 
mother — if  he  was  as  well  off  as  he  is  reported  to  have  been, 
some  enterprising  engineer  would  have  bridged  that  gulf  for 
him  in  no  time.  But  why  should  there  be  any  such  gulf  be 
tween  me  and  a  sensible  jury?  " 

**  Because  under  the  law  a  tusband  cannot  recover  for  the 
killing  of  his  wife." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  under  the  laws  of  this  country, 
if  a  woman's  husband  is  killed  by  a  railroad  she  can  make 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  129 

the  company  pay  ;  but  if  a  man's  wife  is  killed  by  the  same 
railroad,  under  the  same  circumstances,  there  is  no  harm, 
no  damage  done  at  all  ?  " 

"  In  law,  none.  And  not  only  under  the  laws  of  this  coun 
try,  but  of  England  also.  But  you  must  hear  the  reason  of 
it." 

"  Oh,  hang  the  reason  of  it !  Any  reason  for  injustice 
must  be  absurd.  Once  I  thought  there  was  reason  in  all 
things  outside  of  a  Theological  Institute,  except  a  Scotch 
miracle.  But  I  am  beginning  to  think  I  shall  have  to  make 
another  exception  against  the  law  of  the  land.  Look,  for 
instance,  at  Bramlette's  case.  Dp  you  know  how  that  was  ?  " 

"No;  how  was  it?" 

a  Why,  Bramlette's  father  was  wealthy,  and  had  but  two 
children.  But  as  nearly  all  of  his  property  had  come  by  his 
wife,  it  was  a  whim  of  his  to  leave  everything  to  his  wife, 
and  trust  her  to  provide  for  their  two  children.  Bramlette's 
mother  married  again — Judge  Yelverton,  a  widower,  who 
had  not  a  dollar.  By  fair  promises  he  prevailed  on  her  to 
put  off  signing  the  marriage  contract  until  after  they  were 
married.  Well,  you  know  when  they  were  married  the  law 
made  all  her  property  his.  Then  he  refused  to  make  any 
settlement.  He  soon  died,  leaving  all  of  Bramlette's  and  his 
mother's  property  to  some  of  his  own  children  by  a  former 
marriage.  Of  course,  she  could  dower  the  property  ;  but  she 
soon  died ;  and  Bramlette,  the  only  one  of  the  children  living, 
was  turned  out  of  his  own  home  without  a  penny.  The  law 
handed  all  of  his  property  over  to  strangers. 

"  That  was  very  hard.     But  the  law  is  altered  now." 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  it  is.  And  it  was  done  by  that  same 
radical  convention  that  abolished  imprisonment  for  debt, 
was  it  not  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  it  was  done  by  a  radical  legislature." 


130  gA  IRA. 

"  What  is  Bramlette  doing  now  ?  I  scarcely  ever  see 
Lim,"  continued  Hall. 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  has  been  doing.  I  see  him  in 
the  library  every  night.  But  he  is  going  up  on  the  State 
road  soon,  he  told  me,  to  edit  a  country  newspaper." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  fear  for  Bramlette.  The  more  I  ob 
serve,  the  more  strongly  am  I  convinced  that  for  a  man  to 
do  anything  great  it  is  first  necessary  for  him  fully  to  believe 
that  the  world  has  a  special  use  for  him,  that  there  is  some  one 
work  which  he  must  do  with  all  his  might,  and  purely  for  its 
own  sake.  Without  that  conviction,  and  the  energy  to  put  it 
to  practice,  he  may  become  the  pleasantest  of  friends,  and  a 
most  learned  man ;  but  while  he  may  be  much,  he  will  cer 
tainly  not  do  any  great  work." 

"  Yes,  he  may,  if  he  has  genius,  even  become  a  Hamilton 
or  a  Mackintosh.  In  any  case,  such  a  man  as  Bramlette  ought 
to  trust  to  literature ;  he  might  do  something,  «iight  even 
do  much  for  the  world,  comparatively,  in  literature  ;  but  he 
would  do  nothing  at  anything  else." 

"  Suppose  we  go  to  supper  ?     It  is  just  eight." 

"  Let  us  wait  a  few  minutes,  by  all  means.  Have  you 
not  learned  yet  that  all  the  clerks  are  there  until  five  min 
utes  past  eight  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  what  if  they  are  V  " 

"  Why — here  comes  Holmes.  See  here,  Holmes,  I  waa 
just  telling  Hall  always  to  wait  till  after  eight  o'clock  to  go 
to  supper,  when  all  the  clerks  have  left.  If  we  go  before, 
we  shall  have  to  hear  all  twenty  of  them  ask  every  other 
*  How's  biz  ? '  I  had  rather  eat  thistles.  I  tell  you  how 
we  will  fix  them  to-morrow  night.  We  must  get  there  first ; 
and  when  they  all  come  in,-_we  must  start  up  a  clatter 
ing  conversation  in  French ;  we  will  talk  about  them,  of 
course — call  them  names.  They  will  not  say  a  word  ;  but  I 


DAUGHTER   AND    SON.  131 

fear  they  will  giggle.  When  they  giggle  they  mean,  '  biz  is 
biz ; '  only  the  letters  all  get  tangled  in  their  throats  and 
noses." 

"But,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  am  a  little  skittish  of  my 
French  ;  suppose  we  break  down  ?  "  said  Mirabeau. 

"Ah,  now  that  gives  me  a  new  idea.  We  must  do  like 
they  did  with  that  scamp  Parolles — you  know  Parolles,  in 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well — speak  what  terrible  language  you 
will,  no  matter  what,  or  whether  it  has  any  meaning  or  not. 
Let  us  have  it  that  way  part  of  the  time  anyhow,  so  we  may 
laugh  at  ourselves  too.  I  say  :  Throca  mouvousus,  cargo  car 
go,  cargo.  Holmes  says:  JBoscus  thromuldo  boscus.  Then 
Hall  puts  in,  with  great  dignity  and  gravity :  JS^erelebonto 
blonederdonedergewdenstronke.  Then  we  laugh  at  ourselves ; 
and  they  laugh,  too ;  and  we  proceed  to  make  fun  of  them 
for  laughing  at  what  they  know  nothing  about." 

When  Clarence  Hall  informed  the  railroad  company  that 
he  would  accept  three  thousand  dollars,  as  damage  for  the 
killing  of  Dick  Wiley,  and  let  the  matter  drop,  they  express 
ed  the  greatest  surprise  that  he  should  think  of  even  finally 
getting  so  much  for  the  life  of  a  mere  negro,  even  though  an 
honest  and  thrifty  mechanic.  Hall  said  nothing  to  this,  but 
quietly  intimated  that  if  his  demand  was  not  acceded  to  he 
should  not  only  pxirsue  them  by  the  ordinary  methods  of  the 
law,  but  that  he  should  also  bring  suit  for 'damages  against 
the  City  Council,  because  they  allowed  so  many  tracks  and 
cross-tracks  to  be  run  through  the  heart  of  the  city.  The 
railroad  men  began  to  think  seriously  of  the  offer  to  compro 
mise  ;  for  they  feared  that  such  a  suit  might  have  the  effect 
of  calling  forth  an  ordinance  prohibiting  the  running  of 
freight-trains  up  to  the  car-shed.  The  railroad  men  asked 
time  to  consider.  He  could  only  give  them  till  next  day. 
The  next  day  Hall  was  informed  that  his  proposition  was  ac- 


132  gA  IEA. 

cepted,  and  that  the  three  thousand  dollars  awaited  his 
order. 

Clarence  Hall  was  one  of  those  men  who  seem  to  be  in 
spired  in  early  life  with  the  belief  that  the  world  has  some 
special  use  for  them  ;  that  there  is  some  particular  work  for 
them  to  do.  Clarence  Hall  believed  this  even  when  a  boy  ; 
and  by  the  time  he  had  left  the  University,  and  set  out  in 
Itfe,  the  belief  was  almost  raised  to  fervor. 

"  The  crises  of  life,"  said  the  "  old  doctor  "  to  us  once  at  the 
University,  "  are  very  silent."  And  most  men  of  eminence 
will  agree  that  the  whole  bent  of  their  lives  was  determined 
by  something  seemingly  of  the  smallest  importance  :  a  book, 
a  word,  a  look,  may  have  been  sufficient.  When  Clarence 
Hall  was  a  boy,  he  read  the  "  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors." 
Endless  vistas  of  greatness  opened  up  before  him.  From 
that  day  he  determined  to  be  a  great  lawyer.  Is  it  strange 
that  a  young  man  of  rare  intellect  and  daring  ambition 
should  almost  worship  this  profession  ?  If  Hall  had  seen 
the  profession  in  its  true  light,  as  only  a  mass  of  prepos 
terous  quibbles  and  barbarous  conservatisms,  of  course  he 
would  not  have  thought  it  possible  for  it  to  furnish  meat  for 
greatness  to  feed  upon.  But  we  must  view  the  subject  from 
his  standpoint.  With  him  it  was  the  noblest  of  all  professions. 
The  mission  of  the  true  lawyer  was  "  to  vindicate  the  truth — 
to  maintain  justice — to  assail  wrong — to  defend  right — to  de 
tect  fraud — expose  crime — protect  virtue,  and  shield  inno 
cence."  Clarence  Hall  saw*  that  in  his  own  country  the 
legal  profession  was  most  powerful.  And  he  saw  that,  being 
so  powerful,  itself  ought  to  be  elevated  to  the  highest  stand 
ard  of  Christian  morals.  It  was  the  mission  of  this  profes 
sion  to  preserve  civil  liberty _  It  was  the  mission  of  this 
profession  to  lead  the  people  into  paths  of  honor,  integrity, 
virtue,  prosperity.  It  had  been  confided  to  this  profession 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  133 

to  mould  the  institutions  of  the  country  for  good  or  ill. 
Arid  Clarence  Hall  wished  to  rise  to  the  head  of  this  profes 
sion  in  his  country.  Was  it  not  a  worthy  and  a  generous 
ambition  ? 

When  Hall  got  the  three  thousand  dollars  he  felt  better  than 
he  had  thought  it  possible  for  money  ever  to  make  him  feel. 
He  now  had  about  two  thousand  dollars.  Moreover,  he  got 
the  credit  of  managing  the  affair  with  the  railroad  with  ability 
and  tact ;  and  his  practice  received  a  considerable  impetus. 
The  negroes  were  especially  well  pleased,  and  brought  him 
most  of  their  business.  Hall  had  now  learned  to  discard 
fancy  figures ;  and  so,  in  estimating  his  next  year's  practice 
he  did  not  put  it  at  five  thousand  dollars,  but  thought  he 
might  calculate  upon  one-fifth  of  that  sum.  Clarence  Hall 
had  long  had  a  settled  determination  to  marry  as  soon  as  his 
income  would  permit.  He  thought  the  time  had  now  come. 
He  had  two  thousand  in  cash  ;  he  could  calculate  upon  an 
income  of  one  thousand  the  next  year ;  and  there  was  his 
book  besides.  To  be  sure,  his  book  was  not  much,  if  any,  more 
than  half  done.  But  he  would  complete  it  now  !  We  have 
seen  that  Hall  believed  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  "  female 
soul,"  and  that  the  male  and  female  were  "  complements " 
of  each  other.  What  might  not  a  man  do  under  the  inspira 
tion  of  such  companionship  as  he  should  have  ?  He  should 
have  somebody  to  work  for,  making  every  labor  a  labor 
of  love.  He  would  have  somebody  to  love,  trust,  and 
lean  upon  him.  All  tha.t  was  highest  and  best  in  him 
would  be  called  forth.  He  felt  that  he  should  be  a  better 
man,  a  better  Christian,  a  better  lawyer ;  that  his  sym 
pathies  should  be  enlarged  and  deepened,  his  ambition  ele 
vated  and  purified.  He  would  finish  his  book  immediately  ; 
maybe  he  might  write  two  or  three  others.  In  the  fer 
vor  of  the  moment  he  thought  he  should  then  be  equal 


134  CA  IRA. 

to  any  work  whatever,  from  plodding  energy  to  soaring 
genius.  Let  not  the  reader  suppose  that  Clarence  Hall 
was  deceived  in  himself,  for  he  was  not.  You  might  have 
searched  any  area  of  territory  and  not  found  any  man  on 
whom  the  shrewdest  observers  of  human  lots  would  sooner 
have  risked  a  favorable  prophecy. 

Nor  was  Hall  likely  to  be  deceived  in  his  ordinary  calcula 
tions.  He  was  not  one  of  those  visionaries  whose  eyes  are  so 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  made  as  to  see  only  phantasms  and 
figments,  and  never  objects  of  denser  stuff  at  all.  This  was 
not  among  his  faults.  Besides  his  intense  orthodoxy — which 
some  indeed  will  consider  a  virtue,  but  others  a  fault — his 
chief  fault  has  already  been  indicated  :  a  most  refined,  yet 
strong,  selfishness ;  and  yet  I  dare  say  it  may  be  a  question 
whether  this  refined  selfishness  be  not  the  inevitable  result 
of  such  speculative  belief,  when  the  speculative  belief  itself 
is  refined.  Clarence  Hall  was  not  vulgarly  selfish,  but  rather 
generous  and  liberal.  His  selfishness  was  of  a  very  high  or 
der,  it  was  beautified  by  the  poetry  of  his  nature,  and  sancti 
fied  by  the  religion  of  his  geographical  situation.  He  believed 
that  woman  was  in  deed  and  in  truth,  as  well  as  in  poetry, 
Heaven's  last,  best  gift  to  man.  And  he  believed  fervently, 
religiously,  and  particularly,  that  Annie  Dealing  was  made 
especially  for  him,  Clarence  Hall.  He  decked  o\it  this  essen 
tially  low  idea — though  perhaps  unconsciously  to  himself — in 
such  garb  of  poetic  imagery  that  it  seemed  to  rise  before  him 
as  a  beautiful  ideal  reality.  Such  was  the  magic  lantern  with 
which  this  man  deceived  himself.  He  believed  that  he  also 
was  created  for  her.  But  her  sphere  was  an  entirely  subor 
dinate  one.  She  must  lean  upon  him  wholly,  and  in  perfect 
trust.  She  must  draw  her  lifojrom  him  as  the  earth  does 
from  the  sun  ;  and,  like  the  earth,  she  must  strew  his  path 
way  with  flowers  and  enliven  it  Avith  music.  The  will  and 


DAUGHTER   AND   SON.  135 

purpose,  the  responsibility,  the  work  and    grand  ambition 
of  life,  were  all  his. 

Clarence  Hall  and  Annie  Dearing  were  married.  He  did 
not  "  take  her  to  wife,"  as  our  worthy  ancestors  used  to  do  in 
their  day  and  generation.  "  Nous  avons  change  toute  cela." 
That  is,  we  have  changed  all  the  form  of  announcement. 
Me  an  while,  the  thing  itself  remains  pretty  much  as  it  was. 
"Wo  go  on  ''  taking  to  wife  "  just  as  ever — only  we  do  not  take 
so  many,  according  to  the  statute,  as  first-class  people  are  re 
ported  to  have  done  in  the  fervid  era  of  King  Solomon.  Clar 
ence  Hall  and  Annie  Dearing  were  married  !  Said  I  not  that 
I  was  going  to  relate  perhaps  the  most  important  event  since 
Adam?  Who  shall  say  that  it  was  not?  Think  of  Luther's 
parents!  The  world,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  was  cer 
tainly  in  as  great  need  of  a  reformer  as  it  was  in  the  day 
of  Luther,  and  is  still  so.  A  world  reformer,  Humanity 
may  scarcely  look  for  from  the  legal  profession.  But  then 
such  reformer  might  owe  his  paternity  even  to  a  lawyer. 
Clearly,  Hall  stands  a  better  chance  than  did  old  Luther. 
The  trouble  is,  they  might  all  be  girls !  Still,  let  110  one 
affirm  yet  that  this  was  not  the  most  important  event  since 
Adam. 

Mirabeau  Holmes  was  already  in  Europe,  and  was  writing 
back  to  Marian  Malcomb.  When  he  was  in  London  he  went 
to  see  Carlyle.  Carlyle's  Essays  had  been  to  him  what  the 
"  Lives  of  the  Lord  Chancellors  "  had  been  to  Clarence  Hall. 
It  was  these  "  Essays  "  that  first  inspired  him  with  a  restless 
ambition  to  "  do  somewhat "  in  the  world.  They  opened  up 
to  him  a  whole  universe,  but  full  of  mist  and  dream  and 
shadow.  And  these  two  books  were  fit  types  of  the  destinies 
as  well  as  the  ambitions  of  these  two  men. 

Bramlette  was  going  to  try  his  hand  a  while  at  editing  a 
country  newspaper,  and  correspond  with  Emma  Harlan  the 


136  £A   IRA. 

while.  She  might  look  for  many  a  true  poetic  gem  from  this 
man  of  rough  exterior. 

Fred  was  going  to  Sunday-school,  and  everywhere  else  that 
he  thought  he  should  see  the  flower  of  the  garden  of  Kaipha ; 
carrying  always  with  him  one  of  the  liveliest,  j oiliest,  and 
best-filled  heads  you  might  meet  with  in  any  scope  of  country. 

Mr.  Malcomb  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  become  mayor 
of  the  city  ;  and,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Walton  and  Dr. 
Sutherland,  who  were  councilmen,  and  one  or  two  other  men 
of  influence,  was  just  beginning  a  crusade  against  conservatism, 
to  establish  in  the  city  a  complete  system  of  free,  public 
schools,  and  to  build  a  hospital. 

Mr.  Alf  Walton  continued  his  machinations,  and  Mr. 
Brooke  his  fine  sermons  and  visits  to  the  little  cottage  on 
Ivy  street. 

James  Arnot  left  his  wild  home  in  the  mountains,  and 
went ?  Allons  ! 


3. 


ST.    AJSTTOINE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Which  is  the  true  culprit,  the  Assembly  or  the  Commune  ?  History  will  tell.  I 
accept  the  principle  of  the  Commune.  If  any  one  comes  to  my  house  to  take  a  fugi 
tive  of  the  Commune,  they  will  take  me  also.  If  he  is  given  up,  I  will  follow  him. 
I  will  share  his  seat.  And  for  the  defence  of  right,  by  the  side  of  the  man  of  the 
Commune,  vanquished  by  the  Assembly  of  Versailles,  will  be  seen  the  man  of  the 
Republic,  proscribed  by  Bonaparte."  — VICTOB  HUGO. 

THERE  is  a  place  in  Paris  which  I  love  above  all  others. 
No  other  spot  on  the  globe  is  so  able  to  excite  the  highest 
emotions.  Is  it,  perhaps,  that  Democratic  Paradise — the 
Champs  des  Elysees  ?  No !  Nor  the  Tuileries,  nor  the 
Louvre,  nor  the  Luxembourg,  nor  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  nor 
even  the  Hotel  des  Invalides.  It  is  the  old  Faubourg  St. 
Antoine.  Gamins,  sans-culottes,  proletaires,  dwell  here. 
Here  is  the  hotbed  of  insurrection.  At  certain  periods 
aristocrats  and  tyrants  may  lose  their  heads  here  without  a 
moment's  notice.  The  tocsin  of  war  will  sound  here  when 
the  substratum  will  no  longer  be  crushed.  £7a  ira  has  been 
chanted  here,  and  will  be  again.  The  cry  of  Vive  la  Revo 
lution  !  has  been  heard  in  these  parts ;  also,  Vive  VHu- 
manitel 

Gamins    and   sans-culottes.       Vive    VHumamte    indeed ! 


138  <?A   ERA. 

Had  you  not  better  cry  &  has  VJIumanite  ?  Or  had  you  not 
better  hurrah  for  the  Flood  and  pray  for  another!  five 
VJIumanite  f  Wherefore  ?  What  has  Humanite  done  for 
you  ?  Made  you  miserable.  Answer  this :  How  much  of 
life  have  you  enjoyed?  Have  you,  or  your  ancestors  for  a 
thousand  years,  ever  known  exactly  what  it  is  to  be  entirely 
clear  of  hunger?  Do  you  expect  your  children  ever  to 
know  ?  Better  to  hurrah  for  the  Flood  !  But  there  also  is 
the  Place  Bastile,  and  beyond,  Pere  la  Chaise.  Still,  let 
Humanity  be  thankful  to  the  Poor  Quarter  of  Paris. 
Thankful  for  the  Revolution.  Thankful  for  the  Commune. 
If  the  time  ever  comes  when  it  can  no  longer  be  said  that, 
in  the  midst  of  all  manner  of  wealth  and  plenty,  by  far  the 
greater  portion  of  the  human  race  are  still  condemned  to  the 
lowest  battle  of  animal  life — the  battle  with  hunger — much 
will  be  due  to  the  Poor  Quarter  of  Paris.  Which,  think 
you,  will  stand  for  most  on  the  balance-sheets  of  Humanity 
— Arc  de  Triomphe  or  Belleville,  Tuileries  or  Montmartre  ? 
I  think  there  can  no  longer  be  any  doubt  upon  this  point. 
I  reckon  this  also  to  be  settled,  that  civilization  owes  more 
to  the  proletaires  of  Faubourg  St.  Antoine  than  to  all 
priests,  lawyers,  and  politicians  together.  So  of  Humanity ; 
for  Humanity  owes  everything  to  Civilization.  Not  that 
Humanity  owes  anything  to  the  priests,  lawyers,  and  poli 
ticians.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  much  disposed  to  put  them 
along  with  princes,  of  whom  the  Commune  said :  "  Society 
has  only  one  duty  towards  princes — death.  It  is  only  bound 
to  observe  one  formality — proof  of  identity." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  17th  March,  the  eve  of  a 
day  that  will  be  remembered  in.  history.  Three  persons,  one 
at  least  of  whom  we  have  seen  before,  were  walking  slowly 
through  the  Faubourg  towards  Place  Bastile.  They  turned 
up  the  broad  Boulevard  Richard  Lenoir,  and  went  across  to 


ST.   ANTOINE.  139 

Place  Royale,  where  they  sat  down  to  rest.  One  of  them 
was  Mirabeau  Holmes.  Another  was  an  Italian,  young,  of 
coal-black  eye,  and  singular  beauty  both  of  feature  and 
figure ;  his  name  was  Simona.  The  third  was  a  small  man, 
not  above  middle  age ;  his  face  exhibited  a  calmness  upon 
the  surface,  but  below  you  might  recognize  evidences  of 
strong  feeling :  this  man  was  Cluseret,  afterwards  Delegate 
of  War,  and  almost  Dictator  of  Paris.  Cluseret  was  a 
naturalized  American.  He  came  to  the  Confederate  States 
on  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  between  the  States,  and 
fought  under  General  Lee  in  "Virginia.  It  was  this  that 
furnished  the  basis  of  the  friendship  between  him  and  Mira 
beau.  They  had  been  together  several  times  since  Mirabeau 
had  been  in  Europe.  A  few  days  before  they  had  met,  in 
Londoil,  Simona  and  Assi — a  name  already  famous  through 
out  Europe — whither  they  had  gone  from  the  chiefs  in  Paris 
to  consult  with  the  General  Council  of  the  Internationale 
upon  the  present  grave  state  of  afi'airs  in  the  French  capital. 
Mirabeau,  for  what  at  least  appeared  to  him  to  be  good  and 
sufficient  reasons,  had  already  joined  the  Internationale. 
They  had  all  just  this  day  returned  to  Paris.  They  had 
been  sitting  here  but  a  short  time  when  they  were  approached 
by  one  whom  they  all  seemed  to  recognize ;  they  all  rose  to 
meet  him. 

There  are  some  faces  which,  like  a  great  work  of  nature 

or  art,   fill  one   with  emotions  of  the  sublime.     One  feels 

oneself  in  the  presence  of  something   great  and  good ;  one 

is  elevated,  and  feels  a  lofty  pride.     If  Robert  E.  Lee  had 

lived   among   the   ancients   they   woxild   have  deified   him. 

Wh.iover  has  stood  in  his  presence  has  felt  himself  thrilled 

and    elevated   with   grand   emotions.     One    felt   oneself  ii. 

n -hence   of  the  highest  humanity  ;  bordering  upon  the  di- 

iue.     And  here  was  a  face  strikingly  like  that  of  the  great 


140  9A  mA- 

Southern  hero.  It  was  the  citizen  Delescluze,  Tancred  of 
the  Commune.  A  meeting  of  the  chiefs  was  to  be  held  that 
night  to  learn  more  fully  the  result  of  the  late  conference  in 
London,  to  decide  upon  some  course  of  action,  and  to  organize 
for  the  immediate  execution  of  whatever  should  be  deter 
mined  upon.  The  meeting  was  held  in  No.  6  of  the  Rue 
des  Hosiers,  the  same  in  which  the  Central  Committee  of 
Montmartre  was  holding  its  sittings.  It  was  necessary  to 
be  in  close  communication  with  the  Committee,  for  this  Com 
mittee  had  now  assumed  control  of  the  National  Guard. 
And  although  the  chiefs  could,  if  it  became  necessary,  even 
crush  the  authority  of  the  Committee,  from  the  threatening 
aspect  of  affairs  it  judged  best,  indeed  of  the  utmost  import 
ance,  that  all  the  leaders  should  act  in  concert.  Some  of  the 
most  influential  of  the  chiefs  were  also  members  of  the  Cen 
tral  Committee,  notably  Assi,  Jourde,  Lullier,  Billioray,  and 
Babick. 

Mirabeau  Holmes  was  present  at  this  meeting,  of  such  in 
finite  significance  to  Paris  and  to  the  cause  of  Humanity. 
Flourens,  Delescluze,  Assi,  Cluseret,  Dombrowski,  Rigault, 
Gambon,  all  the  leaders  were  there.  Outside  circumstances 
now  furnished  the  immediate  cause,  or  occasion,  of  an  insur 
rection.  The  question  was,  whether  the  times  were  propi 
tious  for  launching  the  country  into  that  great  Revolution, 
to  which  the  brave  and  enlightened  friends  of  Humanity  havo 
long  been  looking  as  the  fearful  but  necessary  remedy  for 
those  evils  which  civilization  thus  far,  instead  of  destroying, 
seems  only  to  have  made  more  unendurable,  and  more  ap 
palling  in  their  now  almost  cosmic  magnitude.  It  was  de 
cided  here  to-night,  as  it  had  already  been  by  the  General 
Council,  that  the  times  were  not  yet  ripe.  But  this  conclu 
sion  was  not  reached  without  much  sadness.  Most  of  thoso 
chiefs  were  young.  Some,  however,  were  not.  There  was 


ST.   ANTOINE.  141 

the  virtucms  and  upright  Gambon.  He  had  labored  for  a 
generation  in  the  cause  of  Humanity.  He  had  learned  the 
completest  self-abnegation.  During  the  whole  course  of  his 
life  he  had  been  altogether  occupied  in  the  cause  of  the  poor 
and  suffering.  Totally  forgetful  of  self,  disdaining  honors, 
fame,  wealth,  and  fearless  of  poverty,  imprisonment,  death,  he 
had  been  all  his  life  looking  forward  to  the  time  when  he 
might  lay  down  his  always  devoted  life  in  the  cause  of  the  peo 
ple.  Here  evidently  was  an  opportunity,  even  if  not  the  most 
propitious.  Possibly  he  might  not  live  to  see  another.  But 
once  more  the  promptings  of  self  were  put  aside.  So  be  it ! 
And  there  too  was  the  stoical  Delescluze,  heart  and  head 
of  the  Commune;  Flourens,  the  ardent,  universal  democrat; 
Felix  Pyat,  the  friend  of  Garibaldi ;  and  Dombrowski,  exiled 
to  Siberia  by  the  Russian  government  because  he  dared  to  be 
the  friend  of  the  people  and  the  enemy  of  tyrants.  The  lead 
ers  decided  that,  as  ma.tters  now  stood,  Paris  should  not  rise. 
The  committee,  however,  to  which  was  now  added  several 
others  of  the  leaders,  was  to  sit  all  night,  for  there  was  no 
telling  what  unexpected  emergency  might  arise.  Paris  was 
full  of  rumors  that  a  gigantic  conspiracy  had  been  formed  at 
Versailles  for  the  overthrow  of  the  Republic  and  establish 
ment  of  the  monarchy.  Many  were  confident  that  the  rumora 
were  true.  And  some,  even  among  those  who  had  the  best 
right  to  knoWj  believed  that  this  coup  d'etat  might  be  looked 
for  at  any  moment.  One  thing,  though,  was  pretty  certain : 
the  conspirators  would  not  attempt  this  without  first  disarm 
ing  the  National  Guard.  On  the  other  hand,  any  forcible 
attempt  to  disarm  the  Guard  would  be  considei'ed  proof  of  the 
conspiracy,  and  the  first  act  of  the  dreaded  coup  cPetat.  In 
this  case  Paris  would  rise  ;  but  in  any  case  the  times  were  not 
ripe  for  the  great  Revolution.  On  the  signing  of  the  treaty 
of  peace  by  the  National  Assembly  of  Versailles,  fifty  thou- 


142  £A   IRA. 

sand  National  Guards  had  been  allowed  to  retain  their  organ 
ization  and  their  arms.  Not  because  the  Assembly  wished 
it — far  from  it ;  but  because  it  feared  the  Nationals,  and 
knew  that  they  would  even  refuse  to  be  disbanded  or  to  give 
Tip  their  arms.  But  why  should  the  Assembly  fear  them  ? 
Were  they  not  Frenchmen  ?  Were  they  not  fellow-citi 
zens  ?  Both.  But  they  were  also  ardent  republicans,  and 
under  the  influence  of  the  most  vigilant  and  active  democratic 
leaders.  These  leaders  had  not  yet  forgiven  the  conspirators 
of  4th  September.  Delescluze  had  declared  publicly  that  he 
only  took  his  seat  in  the  Assembly  to  impeach  them.  But 
why  should  the  Nationals  refuse  to  disband  or  to  be  dis 
armed  ?  Because  they  distrusted  the  Government  of  Ver 
sailles.  They  believed  that  the  conspirators  of  4th  September 
meant  to  overthrow  the  Republic  and  bring  back  the  mon 
archy.  They  had  since  been  confirmed  in  this  belief.  Sev 
eral  plans  had  been  proposed  at  Versailles  for  disarming 
them.  But  the  Assembly  had  not  yet  dared  to  try  to  execute 
any  of  them.  For  a  few  days  past,  especially,  the  excitement 
in  Paris  had  been  high.  The  Nationals  claimed  the  right  to 
elect  their  own  officers.  The  Government  attempted  to  force 
upon  them  a  commander  appointed  by  the  Executive.  The 
Nationals  refused  to  recognize  him.  Matters  were  getting 
dangerous.  The  atmosphere  was  ominous  of  insurrection  and 
war.  The  leaders  were  in  hourly  communication  with  Ver 
sailles. 

On  the  16th  a  great  meeting  of  the  Nationals  had  been 
held  at  Montmartre  in  the  open  air.  They  protested  against 
the  appointment  of  a  commander  over  them  by  the  Executive. 
They  unanimously  elected  Garibaldi  commander-in-chief  of 
the  Guard.  They  elected  members  of  the  Central  Committee, 
and  pledged  themselves  to  obey  it  till  Garibaldi  could  be 
heard  from.  They  declared  that  the  National  Guard  would 


ST.   ANTOINE.  143 

not  surrender  its  arms ;  that  it  would  defend  the  Republic. 
Meanwhile  the  Internationals  throughout  the  world  were  in 
constant  communication — for  what  purpose,  and  with  what 
result,  we  have  already  seen.  It  was  far  in  the  night  when 
the  conference  of  leaders  at  No.  6  Rue  des  Rosiers  broke  up. 
The  committee  was  to  sit  all  night.  Couriers  were  constantly 
coming  in  from  Belleville,  La  Villette,  Montmartre,  Faubourg 
St.  Antoine,  and  other  quarters.  If  the  Nationals  were  at 
tacked  during  the  night  they  were  to  give  the  signal — three 
guns. 

The  meeting  at  No.  6  Rue  des  Rosiers  was  not  the  only 
one  held  in  Paris  that  night.  The  Mayors  of  Paris  met  at 
the  Mairie  of  the  second  arrondissement  to  discuss  the  situa 
tion.  All  of  the  members  of  the  Assembly  from  Paris  were 
also  in  council.  And  the  Republican  clubs  had  met  in  every 
quarter  of  the  city  ;  some  counselling  moderation,  others  curs 
ing  the  Assembly,  and  demanding  the  Revolution;  but  all 
agreed  in  this — that  the  Central  Committee  would  not  betray 
them,  and  that  it  should  have  their  utmost  obedience.  It  was 
quite  late  when  the  clubs  and  other  meetings  broke  up.  The 
city  was  quiet.  The  chiefs,  however,  at  No.  6,  did  not  go  home. 
Of  those  who  were  not  upon  the  Committee,  some  went  to 
Belleville,  some  to  La  Villette,  others  to  Montmartre  and 
Place  Bastile  ;  Delescluze  remained  with  the  Committee.  It 
was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Hark  !  Boom  !  A  single 
gun,  in  the  direction  of  Belleville.  Half  a  minute — boom ! 
in  the  direction  of  La  Villette.  Boom  !  from  Place  Bastile. 
And  then  all  three  in  concert — Boom !  Boom !  Boom  !  It 
seemed  to  wind  and  tremble  and  growl,  every  street,  wall,  and 
cellar  sending  forth  a  roar,  and  to  roll  grandly  forth  over 
the  fields  and  hills  of  France,  waking  the  sleepers.  A  rattle 
of  musketry  in  the  direction  of  Montmartre.  A  rocket  rose 
high  in  the  air  from  the  neighboring  Buttes  de  Chaumont, 


144  £A   IEA. 

stood  still  for  a  moment,  glaring  with  its  blx  e  flame  upon  the 
frightened  air,  then  burst,  the  varicolored  sparks  flying  in  all 
directions.  Montmartre  was  attacked.  Fifty  National 
Guards  had  been  stationed  there  to  guard  the  artillery.  There 
were  more  than  a  hundred  pieces,  and  it  was  this  that  the 
Versailles  Government  especially  dreaded,  and  determined  to 
capture  at  all  costs.  M.  Thiers  and  his  associates  and  the 
generals  commanding  the  department  had  been  in  consultation 
all  the  day  before  to  decide  how  these  guns  were  to  be  secur 
ed,  and  with  the  guns  the  Heights  of  Montmartre,  which 
overlooked  the  whole  city. 

A  band  of  picked  men,  soldiers  of  the  line,  was  placed  un- . 
der  the  command  of  a  trusty  ofiicer,  fearless,  quick,  and  cun 
ning.  The  men  were  ordered  to  disperse  themselves  through 
the  city,  and  exactly  at  half-past  three  to  take  positions  al 
ready  assigned  them,  as  sentinels,  guarding  every  approach  to 
the  Buttes.  Gen.  Susbielle  then  quietly  advanced  and  placed 
seven-pounder  guns  in  every  avenue  leading  to  the  Heights. 
At  a  given  signal  the  first  band  rushed  upon  the  fifty  Nation 
als  who  were  guarding  the  Heights.  And  so  cautiously  had 
the  attack  been  arranged,  and  so  promptly  and  silently  was 
it  executed,  that  the  Nationals  were  seized  and  disarmed  be 
fore  they  dreamed  of  the  presence  of  an  enemy.  They  had 
no  time  to  give  the  signal  agreed  upon — three  guns — if  any 
quarter  should  be  attacked.  At  this  moment  all  seemed  lost 
to  the  Nationals.  The  Heights,  their  main  stronghold,  was 
taken.  This  position  commanded  all  others.  But  the  chiefs 
were  active  and  vigilant.  Couriers  were  continually  passing 
and  repassing.  At  .this  very  moment  one  was  approaching 
the  Heights.  He  saw  what  had  been  done  ;  flew  to  the  neigh 
boring  Heights,  still  in  possession  of  the  Nationals,  and  sent 
a  rocket  hissing  into  the  air.  Boom  !  replied  Belleville ;  and 
Boom  !  Boom  !  answered  Villette  and  Faubourg  St.  Antoine. 


ST.   A^TOINE.  145 

It  was  now  four  o'clock.  Alarm  bells  were  ringing.  Drums 
were  beating.  People  rushed  into  the  streets,  and  instinctively 
cried,  Vive  la  Mepublique  !  Vive  la  Liberte  !  A  heavy  force 
of  Nationals  from  Belleville  now  came  thundering  along 
Boulevard  Rochechouart,  crying,  Vive  la,  Republique  !  Nation 
als  now  began  to  arrive  from  all  directions.  They  seemed  to 
come  forth  from  every  corner ;  nay,  to  rise  out  of  the  earth. 
The  General,  seeing  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  hold  the 
position,  now  determined  to  abandon  it  and  to  remove  the 
guns  with  him.  But  there  were  now  great  crowds  in  the 
streets,  and  the  troops  were  surrounded  l)y  the  Nationals. 
The  troops  started.  The  crowd  refused  to  give  way,  and 
Borne  of  them  cut  the  horses'  traces.  The  intrepid  officer,  with 
the  select  band  of  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  ordered  his  men  to  ad 
vance  and  open  a  way  for  the  guns.  He  commanded  them 
to  draw.  A  hundred  sabres  leaped  from  their  scabbards. 
"  Eu  avant"  shouted  the  officer.  The  Chasseurs  hesitated. 
The  crowd  shouted,  Vive  la  T/igne !  and  Vive  la  Garde 
Nationale  !  The  troops  of  the  line  now  began  generally  to 
fraternize  with  the  Nationals.  The  excitement  was  su 
preme.  "  En  avant !  "  again  shouted  the  officer,  and  single 
and  alone  he  dashed  into  the  seething  crowd.  Some  were 
crushed  beneath  the  hoofs  of  his  frightened  horse,  and  many 
fell  beneatk  the  rapid  blows  of  his  sabre.  Cries  of  terror 
•were  heard  in  the  crowd.  The  daring  officer  fell,  riddled  by  a 
score  of  bullets.  The  infuriated  crowd  now  fell  upon  him 
and  rent  him  limb  from  limb. 

At  this  moment  General  Lecomte  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
The  Central  Committee  had  also  sent  orders  to  the  Nationals 
to  retake  the  guns  at  all  costs.  General  Lecomte  placed  him 
self  at  the  head  of  a  regiment  of  the  line  and  ordered  them  to 
advance  upon  the  crowd.  The  crowd  cried,  Vive  la  Ligne  ! 
and  the  troops  elevated  the  but-ends  of  their  muskets  in  the 


146  £A   ERA. 

air,  and  cried,  Vive  la  Garde  Rationale  !  But  the  troops  hav 
ing  possession  of  the  guns  had  not  yet  fraternized  with  the 
Nationals.  General  Lecomte  ordered  them  to  forward,  and 
if  the  crowd  did  not  make  way,  to  fire  upon  them.  The  troops 
advanced.  The  crowd  shouted,  Vive  la  Ilepublique  !  Vive  la 
Ligne!  The  troops  moved,  arms  at  "charge  bayonets." 
The  Nationals  were  fired  upon.  The  firing  became  general, 
and  many  were  killed  and  wounded.  General  Lecomte  was 
killed.  The  troops  abandoned  the  guns,  and  retreated  in  the 
direction  of  Place  de  Clinchy.  Suddenly  a  terrific  roar  was 
heard  in  the  direction  of  Place  Pigalle.  Boom  !  Boom  !  Boom  ! 
A  score  of  cannon  were  pouring  forth  fire  and  death.  Shot 
and  shell  came  whizzing  and  shrieking  up  the  Boulevard.  The 
Nationals  at  Place  Pigalle,  seeing  the  retreating  troops  com 
ing  briskly  towards  them,  thought  themselves  attacked,  and 
fired  upon  them.  The  mistake  was  soon  discovered,  and  the 
troops  continued  their  retreat  towards  Place  de  Clinchy. 

rlt  was  now  nine  o'clock.  The  last  of  the  troops  of  the  line 
were  gone.  Montmartre,  the  intrenched  camp,  and  all  the 
guns,  were  in  the  hands  of  the  Nationals.  The  troops  had  also 
left  their  artillery  in  the  hands  of  the  Nationals.  But  ono 
of  the  most  fearful  incidents  of  the  day  has  not  been  men 
tioned.  General  Thomas,  formerly  commander  of  the  Guard, 
was  recognized  by  some  of  the  crowd.  He  was  approaching 
the  scene  of  action.  It  was  just  at  that  unfortunate  moment 
when  the  troops  had  fired  into  the  dense  mass  of  people. 
Many,  including  some  women  and  children,  were  killed,  and 
the  wounded  and  dying  filled  the  air  with  fearful  cries.  Tho 
crowd  was  frenzied.  General  Thomas  approached.  They 
recognized  him.  They  fell  upon  him.  He  was  hurried  against 
a  wall  and  shot.  It  was  not  done  by  the  National  Guards. 
There  was  not  a  National  among  them.  It  was  done  by  the 
infuriate  mob.  General  Thomas  was  said  to  be  a  good  officer 


ST.  ANTOINE.  147 

How  much  was  his  life  "worth  ?  Say  ten  thousand  of  the 
lives  of  the  canaille.  Let  us  hope  that  Satory  furnished  an 
altar  large  enough  for  the  expiatory  sacrifice.  Fearful  enoiigh, 
too,  one  would  think.  Still,  being,  I  hope,  a  better  man  than 
the  traitors  at  Versailles,  let  us  mourn  over  the  fate  of  Gen 
eral  Thomas.  Not  because  he  was  General  Thomas.  No  ! 
But  because  he  was  a  man,  like  the  rest  of  us — a  man  of 
flesh  and  blood.  The  killing  of  General  Thomas  was  a  crime. 
It  was  murder,  perhaps.  But  consider  the  circumstances. 
Above  all,  remember  it  was  done  by  the  mob,  not  by  the 
Nationals.  Remember,  especially,  that  it  was  not  by  order 
of  the  "  Central  Committee."  The  Committee  knew  nothing 
of  it.  Not  one  of  the  leaders  knew  anything  of  it,  officially 
or  otherwise.  It  was  done  by  the  mob — the  raging,  frenzied, 
mad  mob — in  the  midst  of  terror,  revenge,  shrieking,  wounds, 
and  death. 

Two  other  officers  came  near  suffering  the  same  fate.  It 
was  afterwards  announced  that  they  were  saved  by  "  a  young 
man  not  more  than  seventeen."  This  "  young  man  "  was  an 
American.  It  was  James  Arnot ;  for  he  too  was  here,  and 
happened  to  be  looking  upon  this  tragedy.  "  Good  Heaven  ! 
Shall  the  men  be  killed  without  a  hearing  ?  "  This  was  said 
too  low  to  attract  attention.  He  made  his  way  through  the 
crowd  to  where  the  self-appointed  executioners  were.  He  re 
solved  to  make  an  effort  to  save  them  at  the  risk  of  his  own 
life.  "  Hold  !  "  he  cried,  "  the  Committee  orders  that  these 
men  be  brought  before  them.  Here  is  the  order.  Quick  ! 
I  have  other  orders  to  carry."  Quick  as  thought  he  took  out  a 
paper  from  among  several  others,  thrust  it  into  the  hand  of  one 
of  the  men,  and  darted  through  the  crowd.  He  calculated 
that  the  men,  on  seeing  that  the  paper  was  no  order  from  the 
Committee,  would  suppose  that  he  had  simply  made  a  mistake, 
that  he  had  given  them  the  wrong  paper.  But  the  mail  was 


14:8  £A   TEA. 

not  able  to  read.  So  he  merely  pretended  to  read  the  papor, 
and  then  stuck  it  in  his  pocket.  He  had  no  doubt  but  it  \vas 
all  right.  "  These  men  are  to  be  carried  before  the  com 
mittee,"  said  he ;  and  off  they  marched  with  them.  Arrived 
at  No.  6,  the  man  handed  the  paper  to  a  stern-looking  young 
man  who  was  standing  in  the  door.  It  was  Simona.  Ho 
read  the  paper,  and  turned  pale  as  death.  It  was  the  fly-leaf 
that  we  have  seen  James  Arnot,  on  a  memorable  night,  tear 
from  his  mother's  Bible. 
"  Who  gave  you  this  ?  " 

"  A  young  man  with  orders  from  the  Committee." 
"  Would  you  know  him  if  you  were  to  see  him  again  ?  " 
"  No.     I  hardly  saw  him  at  all." 
Then,  to  himself,  "  Impossible — impossible." 
A  guard  was  called.     The  men  with  their  prisoners  were 
taken  before  the  Committee.     The  prisoners -were  aides-de 
camp  of  General    Lecomte.      By  order   of   the  Committee 
they  were  immediately  set  at  liberty. 

By  the  middle  of  the  day  the  Central  Committee  had  as 
sumed  complete  control  not  only  of  the  National  Guard,  but 
of  Paris.  The  red  flag  of  the  Commune  floated  from  Mont- 
martre,  from  the  column  of  Place  Bastile,  and  numerous 
other  points.  A  committee  of  barricades  had  been  appointed 
early  in  the  morning.  Many  had  been  erected.  They  had 
gone  up  as  if  by  magic.  There  were  several  in  Faubourg 
St.  Antoine ;  an  almost  impregnable  one  in  Place  Bastile ; 
another  at  Rue  de  la  Roquette ;  another  at  the  junction  of 
Boulevards  Voltaire  and  Richard  Lenoir ;  another  near  the 
Chateau  d'Eau. ;  and  several  in  the  quarter  of  Montmartre. 
The  excitement  seemed  to -increase  instead  of  wane  as  the 
day  advanced.  Early  in  the  afternoon  five  thousand  Nation 
als  formed  in  the  Montmartre  quarter,  and  from  then  till 
midway  the  afternoon  they  traversed  the  principal  thor- 


ST.   AXTOINE.  149 

ouglifares  of  the  city.  By  four  o'clock  they  were  probably 
ten  thousand  strong.  They  carried  red  flags  and  beating 
drums.  Alternately  they  muttered  "treason,"  "conspira 
tors,"  and  cried,  "  Vive  la  Mepublique  !  "  They  were  followed 
by  vast  crowds  of  men,  women,  and  children.  Some  of  the 
men  had  on  red  caps ;  and  the  women  and  children  chanted 
snatches  of  the  Marseillaise  Hymn,  Ca  Ira,  and  other  revolu 
tionary  songs.  At  four  o'clock  the  vast  procession  turned 
down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  and,  after  a  slight  show  of  resist 
ance  from  the  commandant,  took  possession  of  Place  Vendome. 
Thence  they  proceeded  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  They  at  once 
took  possession  of  it,  and  the  Central  Committee  installed 
themselves  therein.  The  Ministry  of  Justice  was  also  taken 
possession  of,  and  everywhere  the  tri-color  flags  were  hauled 
down  and  the  red  hoisted. 

Late  in  the  day  all  the  Mayors  of  Paris  (Paris  is  divided 
into  twenty  arrondissements,  each  having  a  Mayor)  and  all 
the  Deputies  of  Paris  present  in  the  city,  met  at  the  Mairie  of 
the  second  arrondissement  to  discuss  the  situation.  They  first 
waited  upon  Ernest  Picard,  Minister  of  the  Interior,  and  sub 
mitted  a  plan  of  settlement.  But  nothing  came  of  it.  Then 
they  waited  upon  the  General  commanding  the  Department, 
De  Paladines.  The  General  declared  he  could  do  nothing. 
Finally  they  went  to  Jules  Favre.  The  basis  of  settlement 
proposed  by  the  Mayors  and  Deputies  was  simple  enough,  and 
furnished  an  easy  solution  of  the  difficulty  between  Paris  and 
the  Versailles  Government.  This  was  what  they  proposed  : 
(1.)  The  nomination  of  M.  Langlois  as  the  Cornmander-in- 
Chief  of  the  National  Guards.  (2.)  M.  Edmond  Adam  as 
Prefect  of  Police.  (3.)  M.  Dorian  as  Mayor  of  Paris.  (4.) 
The  Deputy,  M.  Billot,  as  Commander  of  the  Army  of  Paris. 
In  a  word,  they  wanted  to  name  their  own  officers.  They 
demanded  officers  whom  they  could  trust ;  officers  who  would 


150  gA  IRA. 

not  betray  Paris  into  the  hands  of  the  Government  of 
Versailles,  which,  they  were  now  firmly  satisfied,  was  plot 
ting  the  overthrow  of  the  Republic  and  the  return  of  the 
monarchy.  It  was  well  known  the  world  over  that  if  such  a 
coup  cCetat  was  contemplated — and  it  is  certain  that  it  was — 
Paris  was  the  only  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  conspirators. 
And  though  the  chiefs  have  been  killed — murdered  in  cold 
blood  upon  the  order  of  any  petty  officer  into  whose  hands 
they  happened  to  fall ;  though  the  poor  people,  prisoners — 
men,  women,  and  children — have  been  mowed  down  by  the 
thousand  on  the  plain  of  Satory,  as  a  huge  offering  for  the 
crimes  of  the  Commune  ;  and  though  the  very  name  has  been 
branded  with  every  epithet  of  infamy  that  ingenuity  could 
devise,  the  truth  is,  that  even  the  Republic  of  to-day  owes 
its  existence  to  the  Commune  !  It  may  be — who  can  tell  ? 
— that  it  was  this  very  consideration,  as  much  as  any  other, 
that  swelled  the  sickening  sacrifice  into  such  barbarous  pro 
portions. 

Think  you,  perhaps,  that  it  is  strange  that  I,  an  American 
and  a  Southerner,  should  say  so  much  for  the  Commune  ? 
Know,  then,  of  a  certainty,  that  I  would  go  farther  to  grasp 
the  hand  of  a  poor  exiled  Communist,  than  of  all  the  kings 
in  or  out  of  Christendom.  I  would  rather  place  a  wreath  of 
flowers  upon  the  grave  of  Delescluze  than  any  in  France  !  If 
the  propositions  submitted  by  the  Mayors  and  Deputies  of 
Paris  had  been  accepted — and  they  ought  to  have  been,  of 
right,  independent  of  the  great  issues  which  were  imme 
diately  involved — the  Republic  would  not  have  siiffered ; 
there  would  have  been  no  "  War  of  the  Commune ;"  there 
would  have  been  no  triumphsyfor  the  Republic  on  the  field 
of  Satory !  M.  Jules  Favre  submitted  them  to  his  col 
leagues.  They  accepted  the  propositions.  They  sent  them 
to  the  Journal  Oj/iciel  for  publication.  The  war  was  over. 


ST.    ANTOINE.  151 

Paris  was  saved.  The  Republic  was  saved.  But  there  was 
more  consultation.  M.  Thiers  and  his  associates  recon 
sidered  their  previous  action.  They  undid  what  they  had 
done  ;  sent  to  the  office  of  the  Journal  Officiel  /  counter 
manded  the  order  fco  publish  the  basis  of  settlement; 
plunged  Paris  in  blood  and  civil  war.  For  this  crime  they 
are  responsible.  They  pretended  that  they  did  this  on  hear 
ing  of  the  death  of  Generals  Thomas  and  Lecomte.  But 
this  could  not  be ;  for  this  was  in  the  afternoon,  and  all 
Paris  had  heard  of  the  death  of  the  Generals  early  in  the 
morning.  But  even  supposing  they  told  the  truth — which 
they  did  not — who  is  such  an  idiot  as  to  say  that  this  was 
sufficient  reason  for  plunging  the  country  in  civil  war? 


152  gA  m A. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"Qui  meurt  pour  le  peuple  av6cn," 

LE  CHANT  DU  DEPABT. 

ON  the  morning  of  the  19th,  instead  of  publishing  the 
basis  of  settlement  agreed  upon,  the  Government  posted  on 
the  walls  of  Paris  a  proclamation  calling  upon  Paris  to  lay 
down  its  arms,  and  surrender  unconditionally  to  the  As 
sembly  !  The  last  of  the  troops  of  the  line  had  quitted 
Paris,  and  were  on  the  road  to  Versailles.  The  red  flag  of 
the  Commune  had  everywhere  taken  the  place  of  the  tri 
color.  The  members  of  the  Government  present  in  Paris 
also  left  for  Versailles.  If  the  Central  Committee  was  a 
band  of  outlaws  and  assassins,  if  their  only  object  was  blood 
shed  and  pillage,  as  was  charged  by  the  traitors  at  Versailles, 
and  spread  over  the  world  by  tyrants  and  their  dupes ;  why, 
in  the  name  of  reason,  why  were  these  men,  against  whose 
traitorous  machinations  Paris  had  taken  up  arms,  suffered  to 
remain  in  Paris,  not  only  after  the  terrible  events  of  the 
•  18th,  but  until  noon  of  the  20th — a  whole  day  after  the  last 
of  their  soldiers  had  quitted  Paiis  ?  Why  were  they  then 
suffered  peaceably  to  depart?  Why  did  not  the  populace 
rend  them  in  pieces  ?  Nay,  why  did  not  the  Committee — 
incendiaries  and  assassins  (!) — have  them  arrested  and  brought 
before  their  bloody  tribunal,  and  shot  without  ceremony,  as 
was  the  custom  with  themselves  ? 

Let  any  man  say  what  wou!3-  have  been  the  course  tsiki'ii 
by  the  great  Republicans  of  '92.  All  the  army  of  Versailles 
could  not  have  protected  them ;  every  man  of  them  would 


ST.    ANTOINK.  153 

have  been  taken,  and  summai-ily  shot.  But  the  great  men 
of  '89  and  '92  were  successful,  and  have  been  deified.  Justly 
too.  This  would  have  been  their  course.  They  would  have 
done  well.  That  this  course  was  not  taken  by  the  men  of  '71 
must  ever  be  regarded  as  a  strong  proof  of  their  moderation ; 
nay,  perhaps,  of  their  too  great  consideration  for  tyrants 
when  the  cause  of  the  people  was  in  danger.  The  Central 
Committee  issued  the  following : 

"  HOTEL  DE  VILLE,  March  19th. 

"  CITIZENS  :  You  had  charged  us  with  organizing  the  de 
fence  of  Paris  and  of  its  rights,  and  we  are  convinced  that 
we  have  fulfilled  this  mission.  Aided  by  your  generous 
courage,  we  have  expelled  the  Government  which  was  betray 
ing  us.  At  this  moment  our  mandate  has  expired,  and  we 
again  deliver  it  up  to  you,  as  we  do  not  pretend  to  take  the 
place  of  those  whom  the  popular  breath  has  just  overthrown. 
Prepare  yourselves,  and  immediately  hold  your  communal 
elections,  and  give  us  for  recompense  the  only  one  we  ever 
hoped  for — the  true  Republic.  In  the  meantime  we  retain, 
in  the  name  of  the  people,  the  Hotel  de  Ville." 

And  to  show  that  this  was  no  make-believe,  intended  sim 
ply  for  effect,  another  decree  was  immediately  issued  that  the 
elections  for  the  communal  council  should  be  held  on  the 
following  Wednesday,  March  22d,  and  the  municipalities  of 
the  several  arrondissements  were  charged  with  the  execution 
of  the  decree.  It  was  said  afterwards  that  this  was  only  a 
pretence  of  surrendering  power  on  the  part  of  the  Committee, 
as  two-thirds  of  the  members  got  themselves  elected  members 
of  the  Commune.  But  this  saying  itself  is  a  mere  pretence, 
a  most  intense  pretence.  It  lies  very  near  to  the  supreme 
bluck  in  the  spectrum  of  truth.  The  Committee  anticipated 


154  gA  IRA. 

this  ;  and  so  they  decreed  that  the  elections  should  be  held  by 
the  various  municipalities.  That  most  of  themselves  were 
elected  only  shows  that  they  had  hitherto  done  their  duty  faith 
fully,  and  that  they  retained  the  confidence  of  the  people. 
But  the  elections  were  not  held  on  the  22d.  The  Mayors  and 
Deputies  objected.  They  wished  to  make  one  more  effort  to 
save  the  Republic,  and  at  the  same  time  prevent  civil  war. 
The  elections  were  postponed  until  the  26th. 

Mirabeau  Holmes  found  himself  treated  with  the  most 
distinguished  consideration  by  the  members  of  the  Committee 
and  all  the  Republican  leaders.  The  simple  fact  that  he  was 
an  American  had  much  to 'do  with  that,  of  course.  An  ar 
dent  democrat,  and  a  member  of  the  Internationale,  he  was 
little  like  the  Mirabeau  Holmes  of  a  few  years  ago,  except  in 
the  passion  for  finding  out  the  cause  of  right  and  justice  and 
enlisting  fully  and  for  life  on  its  side.  But  even  his  enthu 
siasm  had  grown  larger  and  solider.  He  had  not  been  in 
Europe  all  this  while  a  mere  looker-on.  He  had  read  much, 
and  had  been  studying  civilization  in  its  native  soil.  He 
felt  as  one  feels  when  one  visits  those  places  which  are  the 
birthplaces  of  events  which  have  shaken  ancient  systems 
and  created  new  ones.  If  one  desii'es  to  study  civilization, 
one  must  go  to  the  Old  World.  Mirabeau  Holmes  had  also 
seen  much.  He  had  little  conception  before  of  the  prodi 
gious  amount  of  human  suffering  even  in  the  midst  of  the  high 
est  civilizations.  If  Professor  Huxley  had  declared  "  that  even 
in  the  city  of  Liverpool  there  were  forty  thousand  savage 
men  and  women,  and  that  they  were  more  savage  than  the 
savages  of  India,"  he  was  inclined  to  think  the  dark  picture 
borrowed  unreal  blackness  by-J>eing  placed  alongside  of  the 
light  of  English  civilization.  But  he  found  that  the  half  had 
not  been  told.  It  was  not  long  before  he  came  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  there  must  be  something  wrong  in  the  civilization 


ST.   ANTOINE.  155 

which  produced  side  by  side  such  astonishing  and  various  lux 
ury,  and  such  infinite  depths  of  wide-spread  suffering  and  de 
spair.  Then  he  inquired  if  there  might  not  be  something 
wrong  even  with  the  first  principles  of  that  civilization.  He 
joined  the  Internationale.  That  he  was  an  American,  an 
ardent  democrat,  and  a  member  of  the  Internationale ;  that  he 
was  already  the  friend  of  Cluseret  and  Delescluze,  could  not 
fail  to  give  him  a  warm  welcome  among  the  chiefs  at  Paris. 
They  proposed  that  he  should  allow  himself  to  be  chosen  a 
member  of  the  Commune.  This  he  declined ;  but  lest  it 
should  be  thought  that  it  was  for  lack  of  sympathy,  he  signi 
fied  his  readiness  to  accept  any  suitable  position  that  might 
be  tendered  him  after  the  election  of  members  of  the  Com 
mune.  He  had  already  conceived  a  high  admiration  for  the 
character  of  Delescluze,  a  brave,  virtuous,  unselfish  man, 
wholly  given  to  the  cause  of  the  people.  Moreover,  Deles 
cluze  was  a  man  of  the  noblest  intellect,  and  the  most  gene 
rous  culture.  Nor  have  the  most  reckless  defamers  of  the 
Commune  been  able  to  deny  that  he  was  a  thinker  of  a  high 
order.  His  stoical  enthusiasm  and  purity  is  acknowledged 
by  the  strongest  enemies  of  the  cause  for  which  he  laid  down 
his  life. 

It  was  the  day  before  the  Mayors  and  Deputies  of  Paris 
went  to  Versailles  to  make  one  more  effort  for  peace  and  the 
Republic,  and  on  the  very  day  that  the  Versailles  people 
had  succeeded  in  getting  up  a  small  procession  of  "  respect 
ables  "  to  march  up  and  down  the  principal  streets  and  cry, 
Vive  Vordre  !  Vive  V  Assetilblee  Rationale  !  that  Delescluze 
said : 

"  The  people  at  Versailles  do  not  want  peace.  What  they 
do  want  is  the  monarchy.  Until  the  18th  they  were  still 
uncertain  of  the  means  to  be  employed.  They  kne^'thttt 
Paris  was  in  their  way.  They  knew 


156  £A   IRA. 

What  they  did  not  know  was,  whether  Paris  would  succumb 
to  treachery.  They  now  know  that  Paris  cannot  be  betrayed 
for  the  monarchy.  Paris  must  be  crushed.  To-morrow  the 
Mayors  and  Deputies  go  to  Versailles  to  try  to  avert  civil 
war.  See  what  reception  they  will  meet  with.  They  will 
not  be  tolerated  except  by  a  few  Deputies  of  the  Left. 
They  will  be  insulted.  Possibly  they  will  be  driven  from 
the  chamber.  What  is  certain  is,  they  will  not  be  allowed 
to  speak,  because  they  would  speak  not  only  to  the  Assembly, 
but  to  France  and  the  world.  The  Assembly  will  not  have 
peace." 

On  the  following  day  the  "respectables,"  the  party  of 
"  order,"  again  paraded  the  streets.  They  carried  a  tri 
color  flag  with  the  inscription,  "  Union  of  the  J\fen  of 
Order  /  Vive  la  Hepublique  !  "  They  promenaded  the  prin 
cipal  streets  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  crying  Vive  Vordrel 
Vive  VAssemblee  Rationale!  Early  in  the  afternoon  the 
crowd,  which  now  amounted  to  about  a  thousand,  marched 
down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  giving  evidences  that  it  was  their 
intention  to  occupy  Place  Vendome,  which  was  guarded  by 
a  battalion  of  National  Guards.  The  Nationals  guarding 
the  entrance  were  formed  in  three  ranks,  and  expressly 
ordered  not  to  fire  on  the  crowd. .  The  first  line  had  orders 
to  raise  the  but-ends  of  their  muskets  in  the  air  (a  token  of 
peace),  and  if  broken  by  the  crowd  to  retire  behind  the  third 
line.  The  second  line  had  received  the  same  orders.  The 
third  line  was  to  cross  bayonets  and  remain  firm ;  but  they 
were  not  to  fire.  The  crowd  advanced.  The  first  line  raised 
the  but-ends  of  their  muskets  and  gave  way.  The  crowd 
continued  to  press  upon  the  Guards.  The  second  line  fol 
lowed  the  example  of  the  fitgt.  The  third  now  stood  at 
"  charge  bayonets,"  and  refused  to  give  way.  The  crowd 
shouted  Vive  Vordre  !  Vive  VAssemblee  Nationale  !  and  con- 


ST.  ANTOINE.  157 

tinned  to  press  forward.  Seeing  the  Nationals  would  not 
give  way,  they  became  violent,  swaying  to  and  fro,  and  re 
doubling  their  cries.  They  raised  the  cry  of  A.  bas  les 
Assassins/  A  bas  le  Comitel  Several  individuals  seized 
the  muskets  and  attempted  to  wrench  them  from  the  hands  of 
the  Guards.  One  of  the  crowd  recognized  Maljournal,  an 
officer  of  the  Guards  and  a  member  of  the  Central  Com 
mittee.  He  seized  a  revolver,  fired  upon  him,  and  Maljour 
nal  fell,  seriously  wounded.  General  Bergeret,  commandant, 
now  ordered  the  great  drum  of  the  Place  to  be  beat.  For 
several  minutes  it  rolled,  mingling  with  the  furious  cries  of  the 
crowd.  Again  and  again  they  were  ordered  to  retire.  An 
individual  in  the  crowd  fired  upon  an  officer.  He  was  cut 
down  by  a  sabre  in  the  hands  of  a  lieutenant  of  the  Guard. 
At  this  moment  several  shots  were  heard  from  the  neigh 
boring  houses,  which  had  been  occupied  by  the  crowd,  and 
several  of  the  Nationals  fell  wounded.  Everything  was  now 
uproar  and  confusion.  The  Nationals  advanced  slowly,  fixed 
bayonets.  The  crowd  now  rushed  upon  them  and  attempted 
to  disarm  them.  The  firing  from  the  rear  was  repeated. 
Two  of  the  Guards  were  killed,  and  the  firing  from  both 
sides  became  general.  To  disperse  the  crowd  was  but  the 
work  of  a  few  seconds ;  but  many  of  them  were  killed  and 
wounded.  It  was  afterwards  pretended  that  the  Guards  fired 
first,  and  then  wantonly  slaughtered  a  great  number  of 
peaceful  and  orderly  citizens ;  that  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  was 
filled  with  blood  and  carnage. 

There  were  but  two  Americans  present — General  Phil. 
Sheridan  and  Mirabeau  Holmes — one  from  the  North,  one 
from  the  South ;  of  course  they  would  have  disagreed  if 
possible.  They  saw  the  whole  affair  from  the  Westminster 
Hotel,  Rue  de  la  Paix.  Both  affirm  that  the  account  here 
given  is  positively  the  true  one.  It  may  be  objected  that 


158  £A   IRA. 

Mirabeau  Holmes  was,  or  afterwards  became,  an  interested 
party ;  but  General  Sheridan  was  not  likely  to  make  it 
light  on  the  Nationals  from  any  misgivings  as  to  the 
possibility  of  an  armed  soldiery  wantonly  firing  upon  and 
slaughtering  a  crowd  of  unarmed,  peaceable  citizens.  At 
least  one  would  judge  so  from  the  record  he  made  during  the- 
great  "  war  between  the  States,"  in  which  the  Southerners 
were  unfortunate  enough  to  lose  their  negroes  and  silver 
spoons.  General  Bergeret — whose  sayings  deserve  consider 
ation,  not  only  because  he  was  Commandant  of  the  Place 
and  afterwards  a  prominent  member  of  the  Commune,  but 
because  also  of  his  known  uprightness  of  character — gave, 
in  effect,  the  same  account  of  the  affair.  In  concluding  his 
report,  General  Bergeret  used  the  following  language : 
"  We  do  not  want  war,  nor  do  we  want  to  kill  each  other, 
for  our  enemies  are  scarcely  out  of  the  city,  What  can  we 
do  ?  The  Government  attempted  to  take  our  cannon  and  to 
prepare  for  a  monarchy.  The  Assembly  has  a  fixed  deter 
mination  to  force  a  king  upon  us.  Let  us  avoid  further 
bloodshed." 

Meanwhile,  the  Mayors  and  Depiities  had  gone  to  Ver 
sailles  ;  and  there  was  enacted  such  a  comedy  as  France  her 
self  has  seldom  been  called  upon  to  witness.  It  was  dis 
graceful.  It  was  criminal. 

In  the  great  wars  of  the  Fronde,  which  for  years  desolated 
France,  the  questions  at  issue  were  mainly  these  three : 
Who  should  sit,  and  who  should  stand,  in  the  presence 
of  Royalty  ?  Who  should  hand  the  king  his  napkin  to 
wipe  his  fingers  with  ?  (for  kings  have  fingers  too,  just  like 
other  people,  and  get  them  greased  if  they  eat  chicken-wings). 
Was  it  lawful  for  anybody  but  a  princess  of  the  blood  to 
help  the  queen  on  with  her  shift  ?  Not  that  this  last  is 
such  an  insignificant  question  either — provided  the  queen 


ST.    ANTOINE.  ]  59 

be  young  and  good-looking.  In  this  case  I  am  clearly  of 
opinion  that  it  would  be  extremely  lawful,  in  fact  highly 
proper,  for  somebody  other  than  a  princess  of  the  blood  to 
help  the  queen  on  with  her  shift,  or  off  with  it  either.  As 
for  my  part,  being  an  American  and  a  Georgian,  I  would 
scorn  to  live  in  a  country  where  it  was  not  lawful  for  a  gen 
tleman  to  be  a  gentleman  at  all  points.  But  can  the  mind 
of  mortal  man  conceive  of  questions  more  ridiculous  than  the 
first  two  given  above ;  or  more  absurd  than  the  last — after 
the  queen  has  lost  her  teeth  ?  But  it  was  reserved  for  the 
National  Assembly  to  decide  that  it  was  strictly  lawful  and 
imperatively  necessary  to  plunge  the  country  in  civil  war, 
because  the  Mayoi-s  of  Paris  on  entering  the  chamber  re 
sponded  with  similar  exclamations  to  Vive  la  France!  Vive 
la  Repiiblique  !  from  the  Deputies.  If  it  had  been  proposed 
by  a  Deputy  that  the  Mayors  should  be  allowed  to  say  Vive 
la  Hepublique  in  the  chamber,  the  case  would  be  vastly  dif*-t 
ferent.  In  the  case  supposed  110  one  who  knows  the  Assem 
bly  would  be  at  all  surprised  that  the  Deputies  should  de 
nounce  each  other  with  the  utmost  eclat,  break  up  in  the 
wildest  confusion,  and  proceed  to  declare  several  Republics, 
Empires,  Monarchies,  and  Provisaires,  one  and  indivisible. 
Biit  here  it  is  entirely  different.  The  Mayors  had  already 
said  their  Vive  la  HepuUique  !  and  all  the  gods  of  the  Pan 
theon  could  not  unsay  it.  The  case  was  this  :  M.  Arnaud, 
a  Mayor  and  a  Depiity,  said  that  "  he,  in  common  with 
his  colleagues,  Mayors  of  Paris,  in  view  of  the  gravity 
of  the  situation,  had  come  to  Versailles  to  place  him 
self  in  communication  with  the  Assembly.  He  knew 
that  none  but  members  had  the  right  to  a  seat  on  the 
floor,  but  asked  that,  under  existing  circumstances,  an  ex 
ception  be  made  in  favor  of  the  Mayors.  (Violent  pro 
tests  on  the  Right.)  It  would  be  sufficient  that  one  of 


160  q\  IRA. 

them,  who  "was  also  a  Deputy,  should  make  the  communi 
cation,  so  as  to  prevent  any  idea  of  disorder.  He  merely 
wished  to  observe  that,  as  they  had  all  come  together,  and 
been  jointly  delegated — 

On  the  Right :  "  By  whom?  "  (Great  noise.) 
"Voices  from  Right :   "  Was  it  by  the  existing  Executive  ?  " 
M.    Flouquet    (Republican) — "  You    desire,    then,    civil 
war?"     (Renewed  and  continued  uproar.) 

Finally,  after  much  disturbance,  it  was  decided  by  the 
President,  who  had  more  sense  than  most  of  the  Deputies, 
that  a  tribune  should  be  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  Mayors, 
and  that  their  communication  could  be  read  by  some  one  of 
them,  who  was  also  a  Deputy.  He  observed  that  this  could 
be  done  without  infringing  upon  their  rights,  prerogatives, 
and  interests — a  thing  that  must  not  be  thought  of — implying 
that  civil  war  was  far  preferable.  The  Mayors  then  entered, 
each  wearing  a  tricolored  scarf,  the  insignia  of  their  office. 
The  whole  Assembly  rose  and  welcomed  them  with  ci'ies  of 
Vive  la  JReptiblique  !  from  the  Left,  and  Vive  la  France  !  from 
the  Right.  But  when  the  Mayors  responded  with  similar 
exclamations,  immediately  there  arose  a  great  tumult.  The 
Right :  "  Order  !  Order  !  They  do  not  respect  the  Assembly  ! 
They  have  no  right  to  speak  !  Treason  !  Invasion  !  Out ! 
Out*!  Clear  the  hall !  " 

M.  Flouquet  and  several  on  the  Left :  "  Hear  us,  we  im 
plore  you  !  You  are  plunging  France  in  civil  war  !  " 

But  the  Right  only  redoubled  their  cries.  Many  of  them 
put  on  their  hats.  And  finally  the  Assembly  broke  up  in. 
the  midst  of  the  greatest  confusion  and  tumultuous  uproar. 
The  Mayors  immediately  returned  to  Paris,  and-  agreed  with 
the  Central  Committee  that  the"  elections  should  be  held  on 
the  26th.  The  next  day  Louis  Blanc  made  a  final  effort  to 
avoid  civil  war.  He  stated  that  the  Mayors  had  determined, 


ST.   ANTOINE.  161 

under  the  exigencies  of  the  times,  to  hold  the  elections 
on  the  26th ;  and  he  asked,  in  the  name  of  the  Deputies  of 
the  capital,  the  Assembly  to  declare  that  the  Mayors  had 
acted  like  good  citizens  in  consenting  to  that  course.  M. 
Blanc  added  that  he  himself  thought  there  was  great  dan 
ger  in  postponing  the  elections.  The  proposition  was  rejected 
by  a  large  majority,  only  a  few  members  on  the  Left  voting 
in  the  affirmative. 

The  Communal  Council  was  elected  on  the  26th.  It  was 
composed  of  one  hundred  and  six  members.  Those  princi 
pally  known  to  fame  were  Assi,  Blanqui,  Delescluze,  Flourens, 
Felix  Pyat,  and  Gambon ;  also  Generals  Bergeret  and  Clu- 
seret,  and  afterwards  Dombrowski.  Cluseret  was  made  del 
egate  of  war,  and  Bergeret  commander-in-chief  of  the  forces 
in  the  field,  with  Flourens  second  in  command.  Forts  Tssy 
and  Vanves,  and  all  on  the  south,  were  in  the  hands  of  the 
Commune.  Mont  Valerien  on  the  west,  which  was  finaMy 
the  ruin  of  the  Commune,  was  in  the  possession  of  the  enemy. 
The  Commune  had  now  organized  an  army  of  a  hundred 
thousand  men.  The  war  between  the  people  of  Paris  and 
the  conspiring  monarchists  at  Versailles  had  begun  in  earnest. 
The  red  Hag  floated  from  the  palace  of  the  Tuileries.  The 
Government  at  Versailles  issued  a  decree  that  all  prisoners 
falling  into  their  hands  should  be  immediately  shot.  This 
was  the  beginning  ;  Satory  was  the  end.  And  these  are  the 
men  who  call  the  Communists  assassins  !  The  Commune, 
hoping  to  prevent  such  murder,  decreed  that  for  every  pris 
oner  thus  assassinated,  four  of  the  Versaillese  should  be 
shot. 

On  the  afternoon  of  Sunday,  the  second  of  April,  a  splen 
did  body  of  fifty  thousand  soldiers  set  out  towards  Versailles. 
l)rums  were  beating.  The  people  were  singing  and  shouting. 
The  army  was  reviewed  by  General  Bergeret  before  it  set 


162  gA  IRA. 

out.  It  was  here  that  Mirabeau  Holmes,  being  at  the  side 
of  the  General,  witnessed  one  of  those  stirring  scenes  never 
seen  save  among  the  French  or  Italian  people.  A  most 
beautiful  woman,  mounted  upon  a  superb  white  chai-ger,  and 
displaying  the  red  flag  of  the  Commune,  advanced  into  the 
midst  of  the  soldiers.  Her  hair,  that  would  shame  a  raven's 
wing,  bound  loosely  at  the  back  with  a  fillet,  fell  to  her 
waist,  and  from  her  forehead  glittered  a  diamond  star.  She 
waved  her  banner,  and  sang  the  Marseillaise.  She  sang  as 
she  had  sung  once  before  to  the  heroes  of  Garibaldi.  When 
she  ceased,  the  very  air  seemed  to  glow  and  tremble  with  the 
enei-gy  of  inspired  fervor.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence  ; 
and  then  the  vast  multitude  sent  their  caps  into  the  air,  and 
the  heavens  and  eai-th  seemed  frenzied  with  enthusiasm. 
Full  of  the  most  active  sympathy,  Mirabeau  Holmes  was  al 
ready  seized  with  the  ardor  of  the  French  people.  Here  a 
most  happy  thought  struck  him,  and  from  this  moment  his 
place  in  the  heart  of  Paris  was  secured.  He  proposed  that 
the  whole  people,  citizens  and  soldiers,  vote  the  beautiful 
woman  a  crown ;  and  the  proposition  was  adopted  amid  a 
perfect  fury  of  applause.  The  beautiful  woman  was  Alberta 
Simona,  sister  of  the  Italian  patriot.  Having  signified  her 
wish,  Mirabeau  was  immediately  presented  to  her,  by  her 
brother,  the  Colonel. 

The  column  moved  forward.  Some  were  shouting  "A 
Versailles ! "  "A  Versailles !  "  while  others  were  chanting 
snatches  of  their  wonderful  hymn  : 


Aliens,  enfants  de  la  patrie, 
Le  jour  de  gloire_est  arriv^  ; 

Centre  nous  de  la  tyrannie 
L'etendard  sanglant  est  leve. 
Aux  armes,  citoyens  !  etc. 


ST.   ANTOINE.  163 

Tremblez,  tyrans,  et  vous,  perfides, 

L'approbe  de  tous  les  partis. 
Tremblez  !  vos  projets  parricides 

Vont  enfin  recevoir  leur  prix. 
Aux  armes,  citoyenb !  etc. 

Amour  sacre  de  la  patrie, 

Conduis,  soutiens,  nos  bras  vengeurs  ! 

Liberte,  liberte  cherie, 

Combats  avec  tes  defenseurs  ! 
Aux  armes,  citoyens !  etc. 

The  army  was  divided  into  three  corps,  commanded  by 
Generals  Duval,  Eudes,  and  Gustave  Flourens— General 
Bergeret  commander-in-chief.  The  main  body  of  the  enemy, 
in  all  some  fifty  thousand,  was  strongly  intrenched  upon  the 
heights  of  Meudon.  The  Nationals  attacked  them.  Again 
and  again  the  Nationals  charged  ;  again  and  again  they  were 
forced  back  by  the  storm  of  bullets  and  grape  and  canister 
from  the  heights.  Five  thousand  picked  men  were  gathering 
for  a  final  charge.  Alberta  Sisnona  had  been  watching  the 
battle  ;  but  now  she  would  stay  no  longer.  She  advanced, 
standard  displayed,  to  where  the  General  and  some  officers 
were  standing,  in  a  perfect  shower  of  balls,  in  front  of  where 
the  column  was  forming.  She  was  in  a  few  paces  of  them 
•when  she  was  struck,  and  fell  from  her  horse.  The  whole 
army  uttered  a  cry  of  pain.  Officers  and  soldiers  gathered 
for  a  moment  around  her.  The  General  was  wounded  and 
was  bleeding  profusely.  Mirabeau's  hand  was  shattered, 
and  he  was  also  bleeding  from  a  sabre-cut.  Alberta  begged 
her  brother  to  go,  and  leave  her  with  the  General  and  Mira- 
beau,  both  of  whom  had  to  be  borne  from  the  field. 

Simona  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  five  thousand 
men.  There  was  no  yelling,  no  shouting.  Not  a  sound 
broke  the  roar  of  cannon  and  musketry.  "En  avant !  " 


164  <?A   IRA. 

And  this  splendid  column  swept  swiftly  across  the  plain  and 
up  the  heights,  to  do  or  to  die.  In  the  trenches.  Hand  to 
hand,  and  steel  to  steel.  A  shout  of  victory  rends  the  air. 
The  red  flag  floats  from  the  battlements !  But  the  Nationals 
are  almost  spent  with  fatigue.  Half  their  number  lie  dead 
upon  the  plain  and  in  the  trenches.  The  enemy  is  reinforced. 
The  red  flag  is  torn  from  its  place.  And  the  Nationals  arc 
again  forced  back  down  the  hill  and  across  the  plain. 

General  Flourens  was  also  defeated  at  Rueil.  That  bravo 
man  was  surrounded,  and  compelled  to  surrender  himself  a 
prisoner.  When  asked  who  he  was,  he  replied  :  K  One  who 
has  spent  his  life  in  the  service  of  the  people.  I  am  Gustavo 
Flourens."  He  had  already  thrown  down  his  arms.  Tho 
gallant  officer,  Captain  Desmere,  to  whom  he  had  surren 
dered,  rushed  upon  him,  and  cut  him  over  the  head  with  his 
sabre.  Then  all  fell  upon  him,  and  the  brave  old  man  was 
riddled  with  balls.  His  body  was  taken  to  Versailles  and 
placed  on  exhibition.  "  Qui  meurt  pour  le  peuple  a  vecu  !  " 
A  place  in  the  Pantheon  awaits  it ! 

The  more  one  reflects  the  more  one  wonders  at  the  extra 
ordinary  moderation  of  the  Commune  under  the  most  trying 
circumstances.  It  was  decreed  that  the  public  treasures  of  the 
Paris  churches  should  be  seized.  Concerning  this  seizure  tho 
Mot  cC  Ordre — Henri  Rochefort's  paper — said  :  "  As  for  tho 
sacred  vases  studded  with  emeralds,  or  the  emeralds  enriched 
with  finely-chased  vessels,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  them 
public  property,  from  the  simple  reason  that  they  are,  derived 
from  the  generosity  of  those  to  whom  the  Church  promised 
Paradise  ;  and  that  an  assurance  of  imaginary  blessings,  given 
to  extort  money  or  articles  of-  value,  is  designated  in  all  codes 
as  swindling.  We  cannot  say  how  the  first  Christians  under 
stood  religion ;  it  has  since  been  strangely  revised,  corrected, 
and  augmented ;  but  at  this  hour,  and  for  many  centuries 


ST.  AXTOIXE.  1C5 

past,  it  has  become  the  pretext  for  all  sorts  of  extortions  and 
intimidations.  For  this  reason  we  infinitely  prefer  seeing 
the  Commune  make  requisitions  on  the  churches  rather  than 
on  merchants  and  manufacturers."  Of  course,  M.  Rochefort 
was  speaking  of  the  Catholic  Church,  which  never  fails  by  all 
sorts  of  threats  and  death-bed  terrors  to  extort  money  or 
other  valuables  from  its  blind  and  ignorant  devotees.  Still, 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  New  England  witcheries  and 
"  Scotch  miracles  " — as  Fred  Van  Comer  termed  them — would 
not  probably  have  softened  his  judgment.  But  M.  Rochefort 
was  not  the  Commune,  not  even  a  member  of  it.  The  Com 
mune  seized  the  public  treasures  of  the  churches,  because  it 
was  that,  or  let  the  people  starve  !  Was  not  that  sufficient 
reason  ?  The  only  wonder  is,  that  all  the  treasures  were  not 
seized.  There  was  a  proof  of  its  moderation.  From  the  great 
Bank  of  France,  with  its  two  thousand  millions  of  dollars,  it 
only  demanded  the  pitiful  sum  of  twenty  odd  millions  !  They 
only  wanted  enough  to  keep  the  brave  defenders  of  Paris 
from  starving.  They  themselves  were  serving  without  pay. 
The  following  decree  was  also  issued : 

"Paris,  April  12,  1871. 

"  THE  COMMUNE  OF  PARIS — Considering  that  the  Imperial 
Column  in  the  Place  Vendome  is  a  monument  of  barbarism, 
a  symbol  of  brute  force  and  false  glory,  an  affirmation  of 
militarism,  a  negation  of  international  law,  a  permanent  in 
sult  cast  by  the  victors  upon  the  vanquished,  a  perpetual 
attack  upon  one  of  the  great  principles  of  the  French  Revolu 
tion,  Fraternity — decrees  the  Column  of  the  Place  Vendome 
shall  be  demolished." 

It  was  right  and  proper.  I  appeal  to  any  man  not  a 
Frenchman,  at  all  capable  of  exalted  hopes  for  the  future  of 


166  gA  IKA. 

Humanity,  if  the  logic  of  the  Commune  is  not  unanswerable. 
I  say  "any  man  not  a  Frenchman."  For  even  Victor  Hugo 
— of  whom  it  has  been  truly  said,  "  In  a  better  world  than 
this  Victor  Hugo  would  be  a  grand  man  " — has  been  so  far 
blinded  by  the  National  vanity  as  to  declare — "  The  Column 
destroyed  was  a  sad  hour  for  France."  But  let  Victor  Hugo 
be  forgiven ;  for  he  also  said — "  I  was  not  with  them  (the 
men  of  the  Commune).  But  I  accept  the  principle  of  the 
Commune."  The  Column  was  overthrown  on  the  16th  May. 
The  following  description  may  be  interesting  to  my  readers. 

"  In  1806  Napoleon  had  this  monument  erected  in  honor 
of  the  victories  of  the  Imperial  armies.  The  column  was  of 
Tuscan  order,  copied  after  Trajan's  pillar.  Height  135  feet, 
circiimference  at  the  base  35  feet,  base  21  feet  high  and  20 
square.  The  column  was  covered  with  bas-reliefs  in  bronze, 
composed  of  276  plates  made  out  of  cannon  taken  from  the 
Russians  and  Austrians  in  the  Imperial  campaign  of  1805. 
The  bas-reliefs  were  three  feet  eight  inches  high  and  circled 
the  column  22  times,  making  a  spiral  840  feet  long.  They 
were  a  series  of  tableaux,  76  in  number,  having  for  their 
subjects  the  principal  incidents  of  the  Austerlitz  campaign. 
The  bas-reliefs  begin  with  the  breaking  up  of  the  camp  de 
Boulogne.  The  first  represents  the  troops  in  review  and  the 
Havre  flotilla  rounding  Cape  d'Alpreck.  The  commentator 
construes  the  appearance  of  the  ships  while  Napoleon  was 
inspecting  his  army  into  a  desire  on  the  part  of  Ocean  to  pay 
also  its  tribute  to  the  emperor.  Then  we  have  the  departure 
of  the  various  corps  from  Boulogne,  Brest,  Utrecht,  and 
Hanover,  on  the  great  converging  march,  which,  until  last 
yea^r,  was  perhaps  the  finest  campaign  opening  ever  planned. 
The  troops  are  represented  as  taking  farewell  of  the  sailors, 
who  were  to  have  ferried  them  over  to  the  battle  of  Dorking  ; 
we  see  them  on  the  march,  crossing  rivers,  entering  towns, 


ST.  ANTOINE.  1G7 

and  in  their  various  arms  of  artillery,  cavalry,  and  infantry. 
In  the  sixth  tableau  the  Emperor  appears  before  his  servile 
Senators  at  Paris,  and  informs  them  that  the  war  against  the 
third  coalition  has  beg\m.  The  will  of  the  eternal  enemies 
of  Europe  is  accomplished  (said  the  Emperor  on  that  occa 
sion),  the  peace  I  hoped  would  continue  is  broken,  blood  will 
flow,  but  the  French  name  will  win  a  new  lustre.  A  few 
words  like  these  were  quite  sufficient  to  cover  the  demand 
for  80,000  men  of  the  next  year's  conscription.  The  tab 
leaux  continue ;  the  soldiers  are  still  on  their  road,  crossing 
the  Rhine  at  Mayence,  Manheim,  Spires,  Dourlach,  and 
Strasburg.  Then  comes  the  Emperor  himself,  riding  over 
the  bridge  of  Kehl,  with  his  headquarter  staff,  on  the  1st  Oc 
tober,  exactly  one  month  after  the  breaking  up  of  the  camp. 
The  submissive  Electors  of  Baden  and  Wurtemberg,  who  are 
rewarded  with  crowns  after  Austerlitz,  receive  their  bene 
factor;  and  in  the  loth  tableau  the  first  blow  is  struck  at 
Donowerth  by  the  4th  corps,  thirty-six  days  from  Boulogne. 
Then  we  have  Murat  clearing  the  road  to  Augsburg  and  Ulm 
by  the  combat  at  Wertingen,  and  the  passage  of  the  Danube 
at  Xewburgh  by  the  2d  and  3d  corps.  The  plot  thickens. 
Augsburg  is  entered,  and  the  Emperor  harangues  the  troops, 
'  after  the  manner  of  the  Roman  Emperors '  upon  the  immi 
nence  of  a  great  battle.  The  24th  tableau  depicts  Soult's 
success  at  Meningen ;  a  spirited  relief  and  a  long  inscription 
tell  how  Ney  forced  the  bridge  at  Elchingen,  which  gave  him 
his  title  of  Due.  The  enemy  are  driven  back  upon  their  in- 
trenchments  before  Ulm,  and  the  Emperor  arrives  at  head 
quarters  on  the  15th  October.  Two  days  afterwards — 31st 
tableau — Berthier,  surrounded  by  his  staff,  receives  the  capit 
ulation  of  General  Mack.  The  panorama  continues ;  the 
garrison  of  Ulm  file  out  and  lay  down  their  arms.  The 
Emperor  receives  General  Mack  in  tableau  33,  and  then 


168  £A    IKA. 

comes  what  the  legend  calls  '  a  superb  and  ingenious  allegory, 
dedicated  to  the  glory  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon.'  The  alle 
gory  is  as  simple  as  superb,  being  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
Victory  writing  on  a  shield  the  words,  '  Capitulation  d'Ulm.' 
A  few  more  scenes,  among  which  is  the  desperate  fight  at 
Krems,  where  Frenchmen  met  Russians  in  a  narrow  defile, 
and  were  so  crowded  together  that  they  could  not  use  their 
muskets,  and  fought  with  unfixed  bayonets — brings  the  spec 
tator  to  the  quarters  at  Schonbrunn,  the  entry  into  Vienna, 
and  the  surrender  of  the  keys  of  •  the  capital.  A  deputation 
from  Paris  arrive  with  felicitations,  and  then  the  Emperor  is 
seen  quitting  Vienna  with  many  of  his  Generals  for  Braun. 
The  great  blow  is  impending  ;  a  reconnaissance  is  pushed  on  as 
far  as  Olrnutz  ;  Presburg  is  entered ;  the  heights  of  Saiiton  are 
occupied  by  the  artillery.  On  the  night  of  the  1st  December 
the  Emperor,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  visits  the  advanced  posts ; 
it  is  the  anniversary  of  his  coronation  [A  BAS  LA  R£PUBLIQUE  ?] 
and  the  soldiers  light  pine  torches  till  the  whole  camp  is 
illnminated.  High  up  the  column  began  the  series  of  bas- 
reliefs  in  which  its  climbing  glories  culminated.  The  Sun  of 
Austerlitz  rises,  and  the  Emperor  was  to  be  seen  on  horse 
back,  giving  orders  to  the  Marshals  and  Generals.  A  furious 
cavalry  charge  breaks  a  column  of  the  enemy's  infantry,  cap 
tive  Generals  surrender  their  swords,  and  Oudinot's  foot- 
guards  drive  a  body  of  Russians  into  the  icy  lake  of  Augerd. 
[Poor  devils !  was  it  for  this  they  were  born  ?  For  this,  in  part, 
that  the  Column  was  erected  by  the  victors  ?]  In  the  next 
scene  the  battle  is  won,  the  Emperor  of  Austria  has  craved 
an  interview,  and  is  asking  his  bon  frere  to  grant  an  armistice. 
Further  on  still,  French  soldiers  carry  off  cannon  and  other 
arms  from  the  Vienna  Arsenal.  Talleyrand  arrives  at  Pres 
burg  to  negotiate  the  treaty,  which  is  signed  by  Napoleon  the 
day  after  Christinas-day  [and  by  which  some  considerable  area 


ST.    ANTOINE.  169 

of  territory,  and  goods  and  chattels — such  as  horses,  sheep, 
men,  cattle,  women,  hogs,  furniture,  children,  etc.,  were  dis 
posed  off  Down  with  the  Column!]  St.  Mark's  Lion  and 
some  richly  decorated  gondolas  denote  the  cession  of  the 
Venetian  States,  the  Electors  of  Bavaria  and  Wurtemberg 
receive  their  crowns,  the  Imperial  Guard  enters  France  bear 
ing  captured  standards,  the  Emperor  returns  to  Paris,  and 
passes  under  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  a  car  laden  with  spoils  of 
war  follows,  and  last  of  all,  hundred-voiced  Fame  proclaims 
the  high  deeds  of  the  campaign  of  1805,  while  old  Seine,  re 
clining  on  his  flood,  listens  to  the  story  of  so  many  glorious 
battles." 

Just  so  !  "  The  Electors  of  Bavaria  and  Wurtemberg  re 
ceive  their  CROWNS."  What  do  the  people  receive  ?  Death, 
for  the  most  part.  Some  receive  the  loss  of  one  or  more 
limbs.  Others,  various  glorious  wounds.  As  for  the  rest, 
why,  one  half  of  them  receive  each  a  knapsack  full  of  "  spoils  of 

ar."    Where  do  these  spoils  of  war  come  from  ?     Well,  from 

rtain  poor,  miserable,  oppressed  devils,  pretty  much  like  the 
ictors.  But  there  is  one  glorious  consideration  both  for  the 
iving  and  the  dead  among  the  victors — it  is  OFFICIALLY  de 
clared  that  they  "  deserve  well  of  the  Country."  Ought  not 

at  to  be  enough  to  satisfy  reasonable  men,  not  to  say  patriots, 
for  the  loss  of  legs  or  heads  ?  Ungrateful  dogs  !  To  your 
holes  !  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine.  But  whenever  you  get 
a  chance,  remember  to  tear  down  the  Imperial  Column,  and 
,11  else  like  it.  The  Column  was  demolished  on  the  16th  May. 

Meanwhile  several  changes  had  taken  place.  Dombrowski 
had  succeeded  Bergeret  as  Commandant  of  Paris.  Citizen 

irabeau  Holmes  had  become  a  member  of  xthe  Commune. 

ossel  had  succeeded  Cluseret  as  Delegate  of  War.     Forts 

anves  and  Issy  were  demolished,  and  the  Versailles  army 
gradually  closing  in  upon  Paris.  Deputations  from  all 


170  QA    IKA. 

the  principal  cities  of  France  had  gone  to  Versailles  to  in 
tercede  for  Paris  ;  but  the  invariable  reply  was  :  "  Some 
more  houses  will  be  shelled,  and  more  men  will  be  killed ; 
but  Paris  must  be  crushed." 

On  the  9th  May,  Rossel,  Delegate  of  War,  resigned.  He 
was  arrested  next  day,  and  escaped — to  be  afterwards  igno- 
miniously  shot  at  Versailles.  Poor  Rossel !  He  presents  the 
most  pitiful  figure  in  all  the  history  of  the  Commune.  One 
day  Colonel  Lepreche,  commanding  the  trenches,  summoned 
Rossel  to  surrender  Fort  Issy  "  within  the  space  of  one  quar 
ter  of  an  hour,"  else  "  the  whole  garrison  shall  be  put  to  the 
sword."  Rossel  sent  the  following  reply  : 

"  PARIS,  May  1,  1871. 
"  To  Citizen  Lepreche,  major  of  the  trenches  before  Forfc  Issy  : 

"  MY  DEAR  COMRADE  :  The  next  time  you  venture  to  send 
us  so  insolent  a  communication  as  your  letter  of  yesterday, 
I  will  have  your  messenger  shot,  in  conformity  with  the 
usages  of  war. 

"  Your  devoted  comrade, 

"  ROSSEL, 
"  Delegate  of  the  Commune." 

Citizen  Delescluze  succeeded  Rossel  as  Delegate  of  War. 

On  the  29th  April  there  was  a  grand  demonstration  of  all 
the  Freemasons  of  Paris.  The  grand  procession,  with  music 
and  flags,  entered  the  Hotel  de  Ville  about  noon,  which  had 
been  decorated  for  the  occasion.  All  the  members  of  the 
Commune,  wearing  their  red  scarfs,  were  present.  The  walls 
were  adorned  with  devices  oj  flowers  and  olive  branches. 
Upon  the  floor  of  the  Court  of  Honor,  and  upon  the  stair 
ways,  were  carpets  of  crimson.  When  the  court  was  full, 
Felix  Pyat  rose  to  pronounce  an  address.  Shouts  arose 


ST.   ANTOINE.  171 

from  every  side  :  Vive  la  franc-Maponnerie  I  Vive  la  Com 
mune  !  Vive  la  Republique  Universelle !  "  Brothers,  citi 
zens  of  the  great  country — of  the  universal  country,"  said 
Felix  Pyat,  "  faithful  to  our  common  principles,  Liberty, 
Equality,  and  Fraternity,  having  posted  your  manifesto — 
manifesto  of  the  heart — on  the  walls  of  Paris,  you  go  now 
to  plant  your  banner  of  humanity  on  the  ramparts  of  our 
besieged  and  bombarded  city.  You  go  to  protest  thus 
against  homicidal  balls,  in  the  name  of  right  and  universal 
peace.  (Shouts  of  Vive  la  Republique!  Vive  la  Commune!) 
You  go  to  stretch  out  to  the  men  of  Versailles  a  disarmed 
hand — disarmed,  but  only  for  the  moment— and  we,  the  man- 
da  taires  of  the  people  and  defenders  of  its  rights;  we,  the 
elected  by  vote — we  wish  to  join  ourselves  with  you — the 
elected  by  ordeal — in  this  fraternal  act.  Five  favored  names 
— members  of  the  Commune — have  been  designated  by  lot  to 
accompany  you  in  this  glorious,  victorious  act.  (Renewed 
shouts  of  Vive  la  Commune  !  Vive  la  franc- Ma ponnerie  /) 
Your  act,  citizens,  will  remain  in  the  history  of  France  and 
of  Humanity.  Long  live  the  Universal  Republic !  "  (Loud 
and  continued  shouts  of  Vive  la  Commune !  Vive  la  Repu 
blique  Universelle  /) 

Citizen  Beslay,  member  of  the  Commune :  "  Citizens, 
the  whole  Commune  of  Paris  wish  to  take  part  with  you  in 
this  great  manifestation.  I  was  not  one  of  the  fortunate 
five  yesterday ;  but  I  asked,  nevertheless,  to  go  before  you 
as  senior  of  the  Commune  of  Paris,  and  also  of  the  Free 
masonry  of  France,  of  which  I  have  been  a  member  during 
fifty-six  years.  What  can  I  say  to  you  after  the  eloquent 
words  of  Felix  Pyat  ?  Citizens,  Brothers :  Permit  me  to 
give  to  one  of  you  the  fraternal  embrace."  (Citizen  Beslay 
embraces  one  of  the  Freemasons.  Great  applause —  Vive  la 
Republique  f) 


172  <?A  IRA. 

A  Freemason,  banner  in  hand :  "  I  claim  the  honor  of 
planting  the  first  banner  on  the  ramparts  of  Paris — the 
banner  of  Perseverance,  which  has  existed  since  1790." 
(Applause.) 

The  Band  played  La  Marseillaise. 

Citizen  Leo  Meillet,  member  of  the  Commune :  "  It  is 
the  flag  of  the  Commune  of  Paris  which  the  Commune  is 
about  to  confide  to  the  Freemasons.  This  flag  should  accom 
pany  your  pacific  banners ;  it  is  the  flag  of  universal  peace, 
of  our  federative  rights.  It  will  be  placed  in  front  of  your 
banners,  and  before  the  homicidal  balls  of  Versailles." 
(Citizen  Terifocq,  Freemason,  takes  the  flag  from  the  hands 
of  Citizen  Leo  Meillet.) 

Citizen  Terifocq  :  "  Citizens,  Brothers  :  I  see  at  our  head 
the  white  banner  of  the  Lodge  of  Vincennes,  on  which  are 
inscribed  these  words  :  '  Let  us  love  one  another.'  We  will 
go  and  present  first  this  banner  to  our  enemies'  ranks ;  we 
will  stretch  our  hands  to  them,  since  Versailles  will  not  hear 
us  !  Yes,  Citizens,  Brothers,  we  will  address  ourselves  to 
the  soldiers,  and  we  will  say  :  '  Soldiers  of  the  same  country, 
come  and  fraternize  with  us ;  we  will  have  no  bullets  for 
you  so  long  as  you  send  us  none  of  yours.  Come  and  em 
brace  us,  and  let  peace  be  made.'  (Prolonged  applause.) 
And  if  this  peace  is  accomplished,  we  will  return  to  Paris 
convinced  that  we  have  gained  the  most  glorious  victory — 
that  of  humanity  !  If,  on  the  contrary,  we  are  not  heard,  but 
fired  upon,  we  will  call  every  vengeance  to  our  aid.  We  are 
certain  that  we  shall  be  heard,  and  that  the  Masonry  of 
all  the  provinces  of  France  will  follow  our  example.  If 
we  fail  in  our  attempt  for  'peace,  and  if  Versailles  gives 
the  order  not  to  fire  upon  us,  but  to  kill  only  our  brothers 
of  the  ramparts,  then  we  will  mingle  with  them — we,  who 
until  now  have  taken  service  in  the  National  Guard  only 


ST.   A.NTOINE.  173 

as  a  service  of  order,  those  who  have  hitherto  not  be 
longed  to  it,  as  well  as  those  already  in  its  ranks — and 
all  together  we  will  join  the  companies  of  war,  to  take 
part  in  the  battle,  and  to  encourage  by  our  example  the 
brave  and  glorious  soldiers — defenders  of  our  city."  (Gen 
eral  applause,  and  prolonged  shouts  of  Vive  la  Commune  ! 
Vive  la  franc- Mayonnerie !)  Citizen  Terifocq  waved  the 
flag  of  the  Commune  and  cried,  "  Now,  Citizens,  no  more 
words — to  action  !  " 

The  Band  struck  up  La  Marseillaise,  and  the  procession 
of  Masons,  accompanied  by  the  delegation  of  the  Commune, 
filed  out  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  The  flags  were  planted  upon 
the  ramparts  at  Porte  Maillot.  When  the  Masonic  banners 
were  seen,  General  Montaudon,  commander  at  that  point,  and 
himself  a  mason,  ordered  the  firing  to  cease  for  a  short  time. 
Meanwhile  a  deputation  was  sent  to  Versailles.  They  re 
ceived  from  the  Versailles  lambs  only  the  stereotyped  answer : 
"  More  houses  will  be  shelled  and  more  men  killed,  but  Paris 
must  submit  to  the  Assembly."  The  firing  recommenced.  The 
masonic  banners  were  riddled.  The  cannonade  was  now  fear 
ful  in  the  extreme,  far  more  terrible  than  the  Prussian  bom 
bardment.  Many  of  the  shells,  passing  over  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  went  crashing  and  screaming  along  Avenue  Champs 
Elysees. 

The  following  was  published  by  Delescluze,  the  Delegate 
of  War :  "  We  point  out  to  public  indignation  the  conduct  of 
the  Colonel  commanding  the  39th  of  the  line.  When  the 
Versailles  troops  took  possession  of  the  Park  of  Neuilly,  that 
infamous  butcher  ordered  eighteen  prisoners  to  be  shot,  swear 
ing  that  he  would  do  the  same  with  every  man  from  Paris 
that  fell  into  his  hands.  Let  him  beware  on  his  side  of 
fal ling  into  theirs."  The  following  was  also  published  by  the 
Comnrane : 


<?A   IRA. 

"  Paris,  May  27. 

"The  Government  of  Versailles  has  just  disgraced  itself 
with  a  fresh  crime,  the  most  frightful  and  most  dastardly  of 
all.  Its  agents  set  fire  to  the  cartridge  manufactory  on  the 
Avenue  Rapp,  and  produced  a  frightful  catastrophe.  The 
number  of  victims  is  estimated  at  more  than  a  hundred. 
Women  were  blown  to  pieces,  as  well  as  a  child  at  the  breast. 
Four  of  the  criminals  are  in  custody." 

This  was  indeed  a  fearful  crime.  What  object  could  there 
be  in  blowing  up  this  factory  ?  Paris  had  more  arms  and 
munitions  of  war  than  there  was  any  need  for.  The  blowing 
up  of  this  large  manufactory  could  accomplish  nothing  but 
the  fearful  death  of  some  hundreds,  perhaps,  of  women  and 
children.  I  say,  "  perhaps  some  hundreds,"  for  there  were 
ordinarily  about  one  thousand  women  employed  in  the  estab 
lishment  ;  and  from  some  apparently  mere  accidental  circum 
stance  nearly  all  of  them  had  left  the  establishment  at  five 
instead  of  seven  o'clock,  their  usual  hour.  The  enormity  of 
the  crime  must  still  be  measured  by  the  intention.  The  Ver 
sailles  lammies  !  The  Commune  demolishes  the  Column. 
The  lamblings  of  Versailles  blow  up,  a  house  containing  a 
thousand  women,  and  many  children :  (i  bas  les  assassins  ! 

In  a  dark,  still  room,  in  the  beautiful  Rue  de  la  Paix,  a 
beautiful  girl  lay  wounded  and  dying.  It  was  the  Italian 
patriot  girl,  Alberta  Simona.  Her  brother  was  not  there. 
There  were  only  two  or  three  attendants  in  the  room,  besides 
two  visitors ;  the  visitors  were  the  Citizen  Delescluze  and 
Mirabeau  Holmes.  The  terrible  roar  of  artillery  shook  the 
house.  Simona  had  been  sent  for  ;  he  was  defending  the  Porte 
Maillot;  he  could  not  leave  his  post.  His  beautiful  sister, 
whom  he  loved  with  a  passionate  devotion  worthy  of  himself 
and  of  her,  must  even  die  without  a  parting  adieu,  without  a 


ST.  ANTOESTE.  175 

\ 

last  sweet  kiss  from  the  brother  she  idolized.     Such  sacrifices 

the  cause  of  liberty  demands.  For  once,  the  stoical  face  of 
Delescluze  was  wet  with  tears.  What  did  he  see  before  him  ? 
A  beautiful  young  girl,  who  had  left  her  own  country  and 
come,  in  obedience  to  a  divine  sentiment,  to  offer  up  her  pvire 
young  life  upon  the  altar  of  liberty.  As  for  Mirabeau,  he  had 
from  the  very  first  been  attracted  to  this  girl.  So  much  beauty, 
such  sweetness,  such  inspired  sentiment  had  awakened  in  him 
the  highest  feelings  of  devotion  and  love.  And  no  wonder. 
Even  that  is  the  beauty  of  life.  That  it  is  that  makes  life 
divine.  And  there  was  something  divine,  too,  in  the  feeling 
with  which  she  inspired  him.  There  was  nothing  selfish  in 
it.  Indeed,  he  could  not  have  defined  his  own  feeling;  it  was 
too  ethereal.  Language  expresses  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
of  common  Humanity.  And  Humanity  has  scarcely  yet  had 
need  of  language  to  express  the  most  exalted  and  ethereal 
sentiments.  It  was  now  several  days  since  she  had  received 
the  fatal  wound  ;  and  more  than  once  had  Mirabeau  been  at 
her  bedside.  He  was  here  to-day  for  the  last  time.  She 
wi.shofl.  for  her  brother.  They  had  made  a  promise  to  each 
other  in  Italy,  when  they  were  with  the  patriot  army  of  Gari 
baldi,  that  when  either  of  them  came  to  die  it  should  be,  if 
possible,  in  the  arms  of  the  other.  But  even  this  sweet  con 
solation  was  denied  them.  Bien  ! 

The  Commune  of  Paris,  with  uncovered  heads,  followed  the 
sacred  dust  of  this  girl  to  Pere-la-Chaise.  And  that  dust,  too, 
when  the  great  time  comes,  shall  receive  a  sacred  niche  in 
the  Pantheon.  Meanwhile,  let  a  shaft  of  polished  marble, 
pure  and  white,  rise  high  in  the  air ;  and  let  a  golden  railing 
enclose  the  spot  where  she  fell.  Carve  Excelsior  upon  the 
marble  ;  but  plant  no  weeping  willow  there  ! 


176  A  IRA. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  Serrez  vos  rangs,  qu'on  se  soutienne  I 
Marchons !  chaque  enfant  de  Paris, 
De  sa  cartouche  citoyenne 
Fait  une  offrande  a  son  pays." 

THE  most  trying  times  had  now  come  upon  Paris.  All 
hope  was  gone  of  succor  from  the  other  large  cities.  Faith 
ful  to  their  traditions,  Lyons,  Marseilles,  and  one  or  two 
others  had  displayed  the  red  flag,  and  demanded  to  be  led 
to  the  rescue  of  Paris,  the  Republic,  and  the  principles  of 
'89.  But  the  Assembly,  having  the  name  of  the  Republic 
on  its  side,  and  having  the  confidence  of  the  rural  districts, 
to  say  nothing  of  armed  forces  at  every  point,  the  risings  in 
the  cities  were  speedily  put  down.  Paris  was  left  to  its 
fate.  The  cities  had  also  sent  deputations  to  Versailles. 
"  Some  more  houses  will  be  shelled,  and  some  more  men 
killed,  but  Paris  must  submit,"  was  the  answer  they  re 
ceived.  Bien !  So  also  say  we.  There  may  be,  doubtless 
will  be,  some  more  triumphs  for  oppression  and  injustice 
yet.  Some  more  cities  may  be  shelled,  doubtless  will  be ; 
some  millions  more  of  unfortunates  will  be  slain  in  the  field 
or  starved  in  the  cellar ;  there  may  even  be  a  few  more 
Satorys  yet,  but  the  grand  time  will  come  !  Humanity  will 
triumph  at  last !  Close  up  the  ranks  !  Destiny  approaches, 
and  victory  sits  upon  her  banners  ! 

Delescluze  received  the  following : — 

% 

"PABIS,  May  16,  1871  (Tuesday,  7  P.  M.). 
"  CITIZEN  DELESCLUZE  : — A  citoyenne  who  is  entirely  de- 


ST.   ANTOINE.  177 

voted  to  you  has  a  most  serious  comnvunication  to  make 
you  ;  only  as  she  wishes  to  make  it  to  you  alone,  she  begs 
you  to  keep  absolutely  secret  the  reception  of  these  lines, 
and  also  to  find  yourself  to-morrow  (Wednesday,  17th)  in 
the  Rue  Neuve-des-Petits-Champs,  at  No.  48,  under  the 
entrance  to  the  Ventadour  Baths.  You  must  appear  to  be 
strolling,  and  no  one  will  pay  you  any  attention.  Be  there 
at  four  o'clock.  You  may  have  to  wait  five  or  six  minutes 
at  the  most.  A  carriage  will  stop  before  you,  and  you  must 
enter.  Be  without  fear ;  the  person  who  wishes  to  speak 
to  you  will  be  alone.  Put  a  flower  of  some  kind  in  your 
left  button-hole,  so  that  the  coachman  may  distinguish  you  at 
once.  Above  all,  discretion.  Not  a  word  of  this  to  those 
surrounding  you. 

"  Yours,  with  all  my  heart, 

"  JEANNE  LACASSIERE. 

"  P.S.— Burn  this." 

/ 

Delescluze  was  "  without  fear."  He  met  the  citoyenne  at 
No.  48,  and  had  disclosed  to  him  a  dark  conspiracy  of  four  mem 
bers  of  the  Commune  for  delivering  up  the  city  to  Versailles. 
One  of  the  conspirators  was  Cerisier,  a  weak,  timid  man.  De 
lescluze  immediately  went  to  Cerisier,  and  got  from  him  knowl 
edge  of  the  whole  affair.  They  were  to  open  the  gates  at  one 
o'clock  at  night.  When  the  troops  appeared  that  night,  ex 
pecting  to  meet  the  conspirators,  and  to  have  the  gates  opened, 
they  were  fired  upon,  and  most  of  them  killed.  These  were 
the  darkest  days  of  the  Commune,  and  through  them  the 
character  of  Delescluze  shone  with  the  noblest  and  most  con- 
spicuoiis  lustre.  Now  in  the  War  Office,  issuing  orders ;  now 
upon  the  battlements,  in  the  midst  of  iron  and  blood,  and 
pointing  the  cannon  with  the  utmost  coolness  and  precision 
of  aim  ;  and  now  assisting  and  encouraging  at  the  barricades  ; 


178  £A  IRA. 

everywhere  showing  a  stoical  grandeur  of  character  worthy 
of  an  acient  hero.  He  knew  that  the  decree  had  gone  forth 
— Paris  must  fall !  And  he  knew,  too,  that,  whatever  others 
might  do,  there  was  one  man  in  Paris  that  should  be  faithful 
to  his  promises.  And  that  man  was  himself.  If  he  had 
been  less  unselfish,  not  wholly  devoted  to  the  cause  of  Hu 
manity  ;  if  he  had  found  pleasm-e  even  in  his  own  glory,  he 
might  have  looked  beyond  the  din  and  smoke  of  the  final 
struggle,  and  found  cause  to  rejoice.  For  fate  had  already 
unrolled  the  long  list  of  Humanity's  martyrs,  and  there, 
high  up  on  the  sacred  scroll,  might  be  seen  the  name  of 
"  DELESCLUZE  "  in  a  coronal  of  glory. 

On  the  night  of  Sunday,  the  21st  of  May,  the  gates  having 
been  opened  by  treachery — not,  however,  by  any  member  of 
the  Commune,  but  by  one  Monsieur  Ducatel — the  Versailles 
army  entered  Paris.  In  consequence  of  the  conspiracies 
and  defections,  and  the  changes  of  officers  resulting  there 
from,  there  seems  to  have  been  such  confusion  that  there 
was  a  considerable  portion  of  the  army  within  the  walls  be 
fore  it  was  known  even  at  the  War  Office.  Indeed,  it  was 
not  till  Monday  morning,  late,  that  it  was  generally  known 
in  the  city.  By  this  time  the  enemy  had  penetrated  as  far 
as  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and  the  tricolor  floated  from  the 
summit  of  that  monument.  And  now  came  the  times  of 
terror  and  death.  The  Committee  of  Public  Safety  issued 
the  following : 

"PARIS,  May  22. 

"  Rise  up,  patriotic  citizens !  To  the  barricades  !  The 
enemy  is  within  our  walls!  No  hesitation  !  Forward  for 
the  Republic,  the  Commune,  afid  Liberty  !  To  arms  !  " 

They  also  published  an  appeal  to  the  Versailles  troops. 
"  Like  vis,"  said  the  appeal,  "  you  are  proletaires,  and  like 


ST.   ANTOINE.  179 

us,  you  have  an  interest  in  not  allowing  to  the  conspiring 
monarchists  the  right  to  drink  your  blood,  as  they  profit  by 
the  sweat  of  your  brow."  They  were  appealed  to  to  imitate 
the  course  they  pursued  on  the  18th  of  March,  to  come  and 
fraternize  with  the  people.  But  the  assailants  showed  them 
selves  only  too  ready  to  carry  out  the  bloody  programme  of 
Versailles.  There  is  but  one  recorded  instance  where  the 
men  refused  to  obey  their  brutal  officers.  It  deserves  to  be 
recorded.  In  the  Rue  du  Temple  a  barricade,  after  repeated 
charges  and  a  most  heroic  defence,  was  finally  taken.  The 
brave  defenders  fought  to  the  last,  and  several  hundred  were 
taken  prisoners  with  arms  in  their  hand. »  This  circumstance, 
instead  of  arousing  the  admiration  of  the  officer,  determined 
him  to  have  them  all  murdered  on  the  spot.  There  were 
several  women  among  them,  and  one  child,  a  boy  about 
twelve  years  old.  They  were  all  turned  over  to  a  captain, 
with  a  corps  of  execution,  with  orders  that  they  should  all 
be  immediately  shot — child,  women,  and  all.  The  turn  of  the 
child  came.  He  was  pushed  against  the  wall  to  be  shot. 
He  asked  to  be  allowed  to  speak  to  the  captain.  The  captain 
advances,  and  asks  what  he  wants. 

"  I  should  like,"  said  the  child,  drawing  a  watch  from  his 
pocket,  "  to  carry  this  to  the  concierge  who  lives  opposite  ; 
he  would  know  to  whom  to  give  it." 

The  captain  looked  at  the  men ;  for  he  was  only  executing 
orders,  and  it  was  necessary  that  he  be  careful  lest  he  be 
placed  against  the  wall  himself  for  disobeying  orders.  They 
all  seemed  to  understand  that  the  child  only  wished  to  make 
his  escape.  "  Let  him  go,"  said  the  men  with  one  voice. 

"  Well,  go  !  and  hurry  yourself  !  "  said  the  captain. 

What  was  their  amazement,  when,  suddenly,  running  as 
for  life,  and  almost  breathless,  the  child  reappeared,  and 
placing  himself  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  exclaimed  "  Me 


ISO  £A   IKA. 

voiltif"  This  was  too  much  for  them.  Some  of  the  men 
threw  down  their  rnuskets ;  some  looked  to  the  captain,  and 
then  at  the  boy,  lost  in  admiration.  The  captain  seized  the 
boy  by  the  shoulders,  gave  him  a  furious  kick,  saying,  "  Get 
out  of  the  way,  you  wretched  little  imp  !  "  But  the  several 
hundred  men,  and  the  women  too,  whose  heroic  bravery 
ought  only  to  have  called  forth  admiration,  were  all  shot,  and 
their  bodies,  some  of  them  still  quivering  and  writhing  in 
death,  thrown  into  a  heap.  The  following  was  issued  from 
the  War  Department: 

"PARIS,  May22d. 

"  The  citizen  Jacquet  is  authorized  to  requisition  all  in 
habitants,  and  all  objects  necessary  to  him,  in  the  construc 
tion  of  the  barricades  in  the  Rue  du  Chateau  d'Eau  and  of 
the  Rue  Alhouy. 

"  Wine  and  whiskey  alone  are  and  remain  excepted. 

"  All  citizens,  men  or  women,  who  refuse  their  aid,  shall 
be  immediately  shot. 

"  DELESCLUZE, 

"  Delegate  of  War." 

Orders  were  issued  to  erect  barricades  everywhere.  The 
Faubourg  St.  Antoine  bristled  with  them.  Several  were 
erected  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  Rue  St.  Honore,  and  on  the 
Quai.  They  were  also  numerous  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Pere-la-Chaise,  Chateau  d'Eau  and  Montmartre,  in  the  north 
and  east,  and  at  Pont  Neuf,  Place  St.  Michel,  and  in  the 
Boulevard  St.  Germain,  in  the  south  and  west.  And  they 
were  not  such  either  as  usually  spring  up  in  a  single  night. 
They  were  constructed  mainly  of  paving  stones  and  sacks  of 
sand,  and  were  very  strong.  "  Ah  !  (ja  ira,  5a  ira,  <;a  ira," 
was  not  heard  in  the  streets.  All — men,  women,  and  chil 
dren — went  silently,  swiftly,  desperately  to  work  to  build  bar- 


ST.   ANTOINE.  181 

ricades  and  die  behind  them.  At  one  time  thirty  women 
appeared  at  the  War  Office,  and  demanded  guns  to  arm  a  bar 
ricade  in  the  Place  du  Palace  Royale.  They  were  all  in 
mourning.  Each  one  of  them  had  lost  a  husband,  lover, 
son,  or  brother.  There  were  no  horses  to  drag  the  guns. 
The  women  hitched  themselves  to  the  guns  and  dragged  them 
to  the  barricade.  They  carried  displayed  the  red  flag  of 
the  Commune.  Citizen  Jules  Valles  delivered  them  the 
guns,  the  flag,  and  an  order  from  Delescluze  commissioning 
them  to  aid  in  the  defence  of  Paris.  One  of  them  also  re 
ceived  the  embrace  of  citizen  Valles  in  the  name  of  all,  and 
they  departed  to  the  barricade. 

Then  came  the  mistresses  of  the  primary  schools — established 
by  the  Commune.  They  desired  to  employ  the  children  under 
their  charge  in  making  bags  to  be  filled  with  sand  and  used  in 
constructing  barricades.  Thus  it  was  that  everybody — sol 
diers,  citizens,  masons,  women,  boys,  and  little  girls — wanted 
a  part  in  the  defence  of  their  city.  I,  for  one,  wish  the  name 
of  every  one  was  preserved.  I  think  I  could  read  the  bare 
record  of  their  names  with  as  much  interest,  and  with  as 
sacred  a  fervor,  as  the  grand  deeds  of  any  patriot  that  has 
shed  his  blood  for  the  Right,  that  has  died  in  the  cause  of 
Humanity.  Verily,  verily,  I  wish  the  dust  of  every  one  of 
them,  whether  they  died  behind  the  barricades ;  whether  they 
were  hurried  against  the  wall  and  shot ;  whether  they  were 
slaughtered  at  Satory ;  or  whether  they  survived  the  con 
flict  and  shall  die  hereafter  at  home,  or  in  exile,  no  matter 
how  nor  where,  I  wish  the  dust  of  them  all  might  be  gather 
ed  into  some  Pantheon  of  the  world  ! 

On  Tuesday  afternoon  there  were  five  men  met  together 
in  the  War  Office  of  the  Commune.  I  think  you  might 
take  any  known  area  of  country,  through  any  number 
of  recorded  centuries,  and  you  would  not  find  a  company 


182  gA  IKA. 

more  venerable  than  that.  Five  men  embodying  so  much 
exalted  heroism,  so  much  fidelity,  so  much  stoical  yet  enthu 
siastic  emotion,  coming  from  countries  so  far  removed  from 
each  other,  of  lives  and  fortunes  so  different  in  everything 
but  in  laboring  and  hoping  for  the  same  grand  result ;  five 
such  men  as  these  in  the  War  Office,  I  reckon,  had  never 
before  come  together.  I  wish  the  group  was  put  upon  can 
vas  and  placed  in  some  Louvre  of  all  nations.  These  five 
men  were  Gambon,  Delescluze,  Mirabeau  Holmes,  Dom- 
browski,  and  Simona.  Gambon  and  Delescluze  were  both 
Frenchmen.  Gambon,  upright,  pure,  ardent,  wholly  de 
voted  ;  Delescluze,  simple,  stoical,  and  grand  as  a  Doric 
column.  Mirabeau  was  the  only  native  American  of  any 
prominence  in  the  Commune.  He  was  representative  of  his 
countrymen ;  fervid,  free,  generous,  ambitious,  always  ready 
to  sacrifice  himself  in  a  just  cause.  Dombrowski  was  a 
Pole.  He  had  served  with  great  distinction  in  the  Russian 
army ;  but  that  Despotism,  dreading  his  liberal  opinions  and 
his  fiery  patriotism,  had  exiled  him  to  Siberia.  Simona  was 
an  Italian  patriot  and  scholar,  a  friend  of  Mazzini,  an  officer 
in  the  army  of  Garibaldi,  and  had  surrendered  himself  to 
the  royalists  with  that  great  man. 

It  was  of  no  use  now  for  the  leaders  to  try  to  deceive 
themselves.  They  had  met  here  for  half  an  hour's  consulta 
tion.  What  else  could  they  do  but  fight  to  the  last  ?  If 
they  surrendered,  they  would  all  be  shot  forthwith,  without 
trial  or  ceremony.  Not  only  the  leaders — that,  to  them,  was 
matter  of  the  smallest  consideration — but,  judging  from  the 
past,  all  of  the  National  Guards,  besides  thousands  of  citi 
zens — men,  women,  and  children — would  be  shot  also.  No ! 
They  would  all  die  at  their  posts.  They  would  leave  such  a 
heritage  of  triumphant  devotion  as  Humanity  had  not  seen 
before.  They  would  astonish  the  world  by  their  resistance. 


ST.  ANTOESTE.  183 

The  defenders  of  every  barricade  would  die  with  arms  in 
their  hands. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Delescluze,  "  it  is  necessary  we  look  only 
to  the  good  of  the  cause.  It  may  be  that  it  does  not  demand 
this  sacrifice  of  every  one.  It  may  even  demand  that  some 
shall  save  themselves.  You,  citizen  (turning  to  Mirabeau), 
I  think  are  one  of  them.  Yours  is  a  great  country ;  in  fact 
(mournfully),  it  seems  our  greatest  hopes  for  the  future  rest 
with  you.  I  see,  too,  that  the  Commune  will  stand  in  need 
of  friends — strong  friends,  able  to  assail  as  well  as  defend. 
The  cause  for  which  it  dies,  though  it  be  the  grand  cause  of 
human  freedom,  of  universal  fraternity,  will  be  covered  with 
every  infamy.  For  the  rest,  calumny  will  be  heaped  upon 
us  individually  too.  Allons.  That  matters  nothing.  We 
must  look  to  America.  We  can  hope  for  justice  only  from 
the  Republic  of  Washington ;  and  in  that  Republic,  too, 
rests  our  hope  of  the  future.  We  must  have  champions 
there.  You  can  save  yourself  easily  with  the  assistance  of 
your  Minister.  You  have  proven  your  devotion.  The  cause 
will  need  you  at  another  time,  and,  maybe,  on  another 
theatre.  For  you,  citizens  (to  Dombrowski  and  Simona), 
you  who  have  so  often  drawn  your  swords  for  the  good  cause, 
you  both  have  countries  that  have  struggled,  and  will  struggle 
again,  for  liberty.  They  will  need  your  swords  and  your  coun 
sels.  Humanity  will  accord  to  you  that  you  did  all  here  but 
make  the  final  sacrifice,  and  that  you  denied  yourselves  that 
for  a  greater,  perhaps,  hereafter.  As  for  us  two,  my  comrade 
(to  Gambon),  our  way  is  clear.  I  only  wish  that  Delescluze 
may  be  as  faithful  to  his  promises  as  Gambon  will  be  to  his." 

"  Yes  ;  "  said  Gambon,  "  our  way  is  clear.  Let  the  records 
of  the  past  indicate  the  future.  If  Gambon  is  the  last  to 
survive,  then  will  Gambon  carry  the  last  Red  flag  that  floats 
in  Paris." 


184  $A  IRA. 

"  The  dust  of  an  Italian  patriot,"  said  Simona,  "  can  ask 
no  more  than  to  mingle  in  the  same  soil  with  that  of  the 
heroes  of  '89  and  of  the  Commune." 

"As  for  me,"  said  the  brave  Dombrowski,  "I  have  no 
country.  I  spoke  for  liberty  once ;  I  found  a  home  in 
Siberia.  I  have  fought  for  liberty ;  I  shall  find  a  home  in 
France.  Moreover,  I  have  a  special  reason.  I  hasten  to 
the  barricades." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Mirabeau.  "  Shall  not  my 
country  have  one  representative,  however  unworthy,  among 
the  Immortals  ?  " 

They  all,  but  the  Delegate  of  War,  rose  to  go. 

"  Comrades,"  said  Gambon,  "  we  shall  not  all  be  together 
again.  Give  me  the  embrace."  And  these  five  strong 
men,  gathered  here  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe, 
for  a  common  struggle  and  a  common  sacrifice,  silently 
embraced,  and  departed  in  different  directions  for  the  bar 
ricades,  Delescluze  remaining  a  short  while  to  finish  some 
orders.  Dombrowski's  "  special  reason  "  was,  that  for  some 
hours,  the  day  before,  he  had  been  deprived  of  the  command 
of  the  army. 

Four  strong  barricades  had  been  erected  in  the  Boulevard 
Magenta :  one  at  its  junction  with  the  Boxilevard  Rochechou- 
art ;  another  at  Chateau  d'Eau ;  and  two  others  at  about 
equal  distances  from  these  severally. 

Through  the  influence,  or  perhaps  by  the  authority,  of  De 
lescluze,  the  order  to  arrest  Dombrowski  was  quickly  counter 
manded,  and  that  brave  man,  who  at  the  daily  and  hourly 
risk  of  his  life  had  traversed  alone  and  on  foot  the  whole 
length  of  frozen  Siberia  and  Russia,  that  in  a  foreign  country 
he  might  aid  in  the  work  denied  him  in  his  own,  without  a 
murmur  resumed  his  post  of  honor  and  danger.  Montmartre 
had  been  taken  about  noon.  Its  courageous  defenders  had 


ST.   ANTOINE.  185 

fought  to  the  last,  and  died  with  their  arms  in  their  hands. 
Only  a  few  prisoners  were  taken  ;  these  were  overpowered 
and  their  arms  wrested  from  them.  They  were  hurried 
against  a  wall.  Vive  la  Commune !  The  prisoners  were 
dead  !  "  A.  mort  les  incendiaires  !  "  one  of  the  bloodthirsty 
butchers  had  cried  as  they  were  pushing  the  prisoners  against 
the  wall.  "  Liars  and  assassins  !  "  said  a  National  Guard, 
"  had  we  wanted  to  destroy  Paris,  could  we  not  any  day,  for 
the  last  two  months,  have  done  it  by  turning  our  guns  upon 
it  ?  Cowards  !  Cowards !  "  Montmartre,  Place  Pigalle, 
Places  Clinchy  and  Europe,  and  all  west  were  now  in  the 
hands  of  the  Versailles  troops  ;  and  they  had  already  begun 
a  fierce  attack  upon  the  strong  barricade  at  the  northern 
terminus  of  the  Boulevard  Magenta.  It  was  necessary  to 
take  this  barricade,  because  it  was  heavily  armed  with  cannon, 
and  in  the  hands  of  the  Versaillese  these  guns  might  be 
turned  upon  the  other  barricades  to  the  south.  Boulevard 
Magenta  being  a  broad  open  avenue,  and  the  other  barri 
cades  armed  with  cannon,  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to 
dislodge  them,  especially  from  the  immense  barricade  at  Cha 
teau  d'Eau,  unless  this  first  one  was  captured.  It  was  to 
this  barricade  that  Dombrowski,  Mirabeau  Holmes,  and 
several  members  of  the  General's  staff"  hastened  from  the 
Hotel  de  Ville — alas !  to  which  one  of  them  was  to  return 
only  too  soon  for  the  hopes  of  friends,  but  not  too  soon 
for  the  full  measure  of  his  glory.  When  they  reached  the 
barricade  it  was  in  the  midst  of  a  furious  attack.  The  assail 
ants,  by  crawling  along  the  sidewalks  and  dodging  into  the 
doors  and  recesses  of  the  walls,  had  occupied  the  neighbor 
ing  houses,  and  from  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  upper 
.stories  were  pouring  a  destructive  fire  over  the  barricade.  The 
General  saw  that  the  position  would  not  long  be  tenable. 
He  immediately  sent  off  the  members  of  his  staff  present 


186  g 

with  orders  to  the  commandants  of  the  other  positions  to 
mass  as  many  men  as  possible  to  be  used  effectively,  behind 
the  works,  and  to  occupy  with  small  bodies  of  resolute  men. 
the  houses  for  some  hundred  yards  in  front.  He  then 
mounted  upon  the  barricade,  in  the  midst  of  a  shower  of 
balls,  and  lowered  and  pointed  several  of  the  guns,  so  as,  in 
case  of  assault,  to  rake  the  street  even  from  the  very  foot  of 
the  works.  This  was  hardly  finished  when  the  quick  eye  of 
the  General  detected  the  heads  of  lines  of  assailants  gather 
ing  in  the  cross-streets,  as  if  simultaneously  to  debouch  in 
the  main  street  and  assault  the  works.  Dombrowski  seized 
the  red  flag,  and  displaying  it  from  the  summit  of  the  barri 
cade,  called  out :  "  Soldiers,  you  are  about  to  be  assaulted. 
They  are  already  forming  for  the  charge  in  yonder  streets. 
Let  us  all  swear  to  die  here  rather  than  surrender  !  "  At 
this  very  instant  the  assailants  dashed  into  the  street,  and 
came  forward  with  a  yell.  "  We  swear !  "  "  We  swear  !  " 
"  Vive  la  Commune  !  "  was  heard  on  every  side  amidst  the 
roar  and  rattle.  The  flag  was  torn  from  the  General's  hand. 
Mirabeau  seized  it  and  remounted  to  his  side.  A  ball  struck 
his  left  arm,  by  which  he  held  it,  firing  with  his  right ;  another 
ball  grazed  his  forehead  and  he  fell  to  the  ground.  Only 
stunned  by  the  blow,  he  was  on  his  feet  again  in  an  instant. 
"  Vive  la  Commune  !  "  shouted  the  gallant  General  as  a  bullet 
pierced  his  body,  and  he  also  fell  to  the  earth  still  grasping  the 
flag.  Amid  the  din  and  smoke  his  fall  was  not  immediately 
noticed.  Mirabeau  called  to  a  litter  near  by.  The  General 
was  placed  upon  it,  and  Mirabeau,  with  three  National  Guards, 
carried  him  to  the  neighboring  hospital  of  Lariboisiere.  As 
they  were  moving  oft'  with  him  the  General  was  recognized, 
and  many  came  and  covered  him  with  kisses.  They  found 
Dr.  Cusco,  chief  surgeon,  at  the  hospital.  He  asked  how 
long  he  should  live :  he  was  in  great  pain.  "  Not  longer 


ST.  ANTOINE.  187 

than  two  hours,"  replied  the  surgeon.  "  Then  give  me  a 
piece  of  paper,"  said  the  General,  and  the  following  order 
sent  to  his  chief  of  staff : 


SOLDIERS  !  CITIZENS  !     Hold  the  barricades  !     Let  not  a 
man  leave  his  post !     Let  not  a  man  surrender ! 

"  DOMBROWSKI." 

I  This  was  Dombrowski's  last  order.  In  one  hour,  between 
even  and  eight,  Dombrowski  was  dead.  At  half-past  eight 
the  General's  chief  of  staff,  Brioncel,  came  to  the  hospital, 
followed  by  the  escort  of  the  General. 

"  Where  is  the  General  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  is  dead,"  replied  the  attendant. 

"  Then  give  me  his  body." 

When  the  body  of  the  General  had  been  delivered  to  his 
staff,  and  placed  in  a  cab,  the  Director  of  the  hospital  arrived, 
and  asked,  •'  Why  they  were  taking  away  the  body."  "  It  is  our 
General's,"  replied  Brioncel;  "we  don't  wish  the  Versaillese 
to  have  his  body."  As  the  carriage  was  about  to  start  to  the 
Hotel  de  Ville,  several  soldiers  kissed  him  on  the  forehead, 
with  many  expressions  of  endearment.  About  midnight  the 
tody  of  Dombrowski  was  taken  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to 
the  cemetery  of  Pere-la-Chaise.  The  body  was  dressed  in  a 
Polish  jacket,  and  wapped  in  a  red  flag,  the  same  that  the 
General  had  displayed  from  the  barricade,  and  fallen  -with  in 
his  hand.  The  body  was  for  some  time  exposed  on  a  litter. 
Colonel  Dombrowski,  brother  of  the  General,  was  present ; 
Mirabeau,  Vermorel,  several  oftier  officers  and  chiefs,  and  the 
commandant  of  the  place,  Bruneseau,  were  also  present..  The 
Commandant  then  called  in  the  soldiers  who  were  on  guard  in 
the  cemetery,  and  each  in  turn  kissed  the  General  on  the  fore- 


188  (?A  IRA. 

head.  The  body  was  then  placed  in  an  oaken  coffin.  Some 
words  were  written  upon  the  lid  by  the  General's  brother. 
The  coffin  was  then  closed  and  placed  in  a  vault. 

One  more  final  attempt  was  made  to  influence  the  Versailles 
soldiers.  The  following  was  posted  on  the  walls  : 

"  COMMUNE  OF  PARIS. 
"  Federation  of  the  National  Guard. 
"  SOLDIERS  OF  THE  ARMY  OF  VERSAILLES  : — We  are  fathers 
of  families.  We  are  fighting  to  prevent  our  children  from 
being,  one  day,  under  a  military  despotism.  You  will  be,  one 
day,  fathers  of  families.  If  you  draw  on  the  people  to-day, 
your  sons  will  curse  you,  as  we  curse  the  soldiers  who  tore 
the  entrails  of  the  people  in  June,  1848,  and  in  December, 
1851.  Two  months  ago,  on  the  18th  of  March,  your  bro 
thers  of  the  army  of  Paris,  their  hearts  infuriated  against 
the  cowards  who  had  sold  France,  fraternized  with  the  people. 
Imitate  them.  Soldiers,  our  children  and  our  brothers, 
listen  well  to  this,  and  let  your  consciences  decide.  When 
the  watchword  is  infamous,  disobedience  is  a  duty  ! 

"  THE  CENTRAL  COMMITTEE." 

On  the  morning  of  the  24th,  thirteen  women  were  shot  in 
Place  Vendome.  They  were  assisting  in  defending  the  barri 
cade.  It  was  afterwards  pretended — tha  crime  was  so  horri 
ble  that  some  pretence  was  necessary — that  petroleum  wiis 
found  upon  their  persons.  Ten  women  and  children,  some 
of  the  children  only  ten  years  old,  were  also  arrested  near 
the  New  Opera.  They  wepe  murdered  on  the  spot.  There 
were  many  such  instances.  In  no  case  was  there  pretence 
of  trial  or  investigation.  While  these  butcheries  were 
enacting  in  Paris,  the  gentle  Assembly  of  Versailles,  repro- 


ST.   ANTOINE.  189 

sentatives  of  the  people,  were  engaged  in  passing  the  follow 
ing  : 

"  The  Expiatory  Monument,  raised  to  the  memory  of  Louis 
XVI.,  shall  be  immediately  repaired."  (Loud  applause  on 
the  Right).  Bah ! 


190  <A  IKA. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


•  This  is  the  very  top, 


The  height,  the  crest,  or  crest  unto  the  crest 
Of  murder's  arms :  this  is  the  bloodiest  shame, 
The  wildest  savagery,  the  vilest  stroke, 
That  ever  wall-eyed  wrath,  or  staring  rage, 
Presented  to  the  tears  of  soft  remorse." 

— King  John. 

ON  the  24th,  Wednesday,  Raoul  Rigault,  the  famous 
Prefect  of  Police,  and  Procurator  of  the  Commune,  was  shot. 
Rigault  was  an  atheist,  without  pity,  and  entirely  dominated 
by  passion.  But  there  was  not  a  man  in  France  so  compe 
tent  as  he  to  fill  the  office  of  Prefect  of  the  Paris  Police. 
So  swift  and  accurate  was  his  knowledge,  and  so  firm  his 
rule,  that  during  the  whole  reign  of  the  Commune  there  was 
not  a  single  insurrrection,  or  even  conspiracy,  among  the 
adherents  of  Versailles.  If  anybody  was  hostile  to  the  Com 
mune,  Rigault  knew  it  almost  before  he  had  spoken  it  to 
himself ;  and  he  was  immediately  arrested.  Rigault  wanted 
to  create  a  "  reign  of  terror,"  but  the  Commune  would  not 
hear  of  it.  When  he  was  captured  he  was  just  entering  his 
hotel  in  the  Rue  Gay-Lussac.  His  captors  were  proceeding 
with  him  toward  the  Luxembourg,  when  they  were  met  by  a 
petty  officer.  He  halted  them,  and  asked  Rigault  his  name. 
Rigault  replied  with  a  shout  of  "  Vive  la  Commune !  " 
"  A  bas  les  assassins  !  "  He  was  placed  against  a  wall  and 
shot.  His  head  and  face  -were  horribly  mutilat"  1,  and  the 
body  left  in  the  street.  All  day  Wednesday  was  one  contin 
ued  roar  of  cannon  and  mitrailleuse.  Place  Vendorne,  Place 
Concorde,  and  the  Tuileries  were  now  in  the  hands  of  the 


ST.   ASTTOINE.  101 

enemy.  The  strongholds  still  in  possession  of  the  people 
were  the  Buttes  Chaumonte,  Belville  Heights,  Chateau  d'  Eau, 
Place  Bastile,  and  the  heights  of  Menilraontant. 

It  was  not  till  night  came,  and  darkness  enveloped  the 
city,  that  the  fearful  extent  of  the  conflagrations  raging  in 
different  quarters  was  fully  apprehended.  The  palace  of  the 
Tuileries  presented  the  appearance  of  the  crater  of  an  enor 
mous  volcano  in  action ;  while  ranged  about  it  were  con 
flagrations  of  the  Palace  Royale,  Ministry  of  Finance,  Pal 
ace  of  Justice,  Central  Markets,  Hdtel  de  Ville,  Conseil 
d'Etat,  and  Palace  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  like  great  irregu 
lar  jets  of  flame  leaping  and  whirling  from  the  sides  of  the 
riven  mountain.  Meanwhile  the  terrible  roar  of  cannon 
continued,  and  shells  were  hissing,  screaming,  and  crashing 
in  every  direction.  The  cannonade  was  kept  up  all  night. 
The  people  were  compelled  to  abandon  the  central  portion  of 
the  city,  and  fall  back  on  the  Chateau  d'Eau  and  strongholds 
throughout  that  quarter.  The  outer  Boulevards  were  in 
possession  of  the  enemy.  There  was  no  escape. 

It  had  also  been  proclaimed  that  no  mercy  would  be 
shown  them.  The  people  saw  almost  hourly  evidences  suffi 
cient  to  convince  them  that  this  was  no  idle  threat.  Men, 
women,  girls,  and  boys — all,  when  they  fell  into  the  bands  ot 
the  enemy — were  immediately  shot.  They  were  thrown  into 
heaps  about  the  corners  of  the  streets.  Some  of  them,  not 
dead,  were  smothered  and  crushed  beneath  the  bloody  and 
frequently  mangled  bodies.  There  was  nothing  left  but  to 
fiirlit  with  the  energy  of  despair.  Is  it  wonderful  that  they 
sometimes  also  fought,  and  even  retaliated,  with  the  fury  of 
d  espair  ?  For  all  of  which  the  conspiratprs  and  assassins  of 
Versailles  are  alone  responsible.  And  it  was  not  only  pri- 
3,  and  such  petty  officers  as  that  which  had  Pugault  shot, 
were  guilty  of  these  cold-blooded  murders.  On  Thursday 


192  <JA  IKA. 

Milliere  was  taken  by  a  sergeant  and  several  private  sol 
diers  in  the  Rue  d'Ulm.  This  sergeant  was  a  better  man 
than  most  of  his  brother  officers.  He  did  not  feel  that  he 
had  the  right  to  shoot  down  a  disarmed  prisoner,  though  a 
member  of  the  Commune,  as  if  he  were  no  more  than  a  beast 
of  prey.  The  sergeant  felt  that  such  a  proceeding  would  be 
very  much  like  murder.  Would  it  not  have  been  murder 
itself?  Can  even  the  most  dimly  lighted  conscience  give 
but  one  answer?  Milliere  was  taken  before  General  de 
Cissey.  It  may  be  that  this  gallant  General  was  already 
looking  forward  to  preferment.  He  was  afterwards  made 
Minister  of  War,  possibly  for  this  «,nd  many  other  similar 
feats.  General  de  Cissey,  of  his  own  royal  pleasure,  ordered 
Milliere  to  be  taken  to  the  Pantheon  and  shot.  Arrived  at 
the  Pantheon,  Milliere  was  made  to  stand  upon  the  top  step. 
One  officer  forced  him  to  turn  his  face  to  the  wall,  another 
ordered  him  to  face  his  executioners,  and  the  two  fell  to 
violent  quarrelling.  At  last  the  murdered  man  faced  his 
executioners.  He  uncovered  his  breast.  "  Vive  la  IZepv^ 
Ulique!  Vive  la  JPeuple !  Vive  la  Commune  f  Vive 
Milliere  was  dead ;  and  the  body  rolled  down  the 
steps. 

Jules  Yalles  was  taken  prisoner  early  on  Thursday  morn 
ing.  He  was  immediately  led  out  to  be  shot.  His  ferocious 
murderers  could  not  restrain  themselves  till  they  reached  the 
place  they  had  fixed  upon  as  the  place  of  execution.  One 
of  them  struck  him  on  the  back  of  the  head.  M.  Vallcs 
turned  upon  him,  exclaiming,  "A  Fassassinf"  Another 
then  struck  him  a  violent  blow  on  the  back  with  his  musket. 
His  spine  was  broken  by  th^.  blow ;  and  the  poor  man  fell  to 
the  ground,  fixing  upon  his  murderers  a  look  of  the  greatest 
horror.  All  now  fell  upon  him  ;  some  firing  upon  him,  and 
some  thrusting  their  bayonets  through  his  hands,  neck,  aud 


ST.   ANTOINE.  193 

face.  Still  he  was  not  dead,  when  one^soldier,  perhaps  bet 
ter  than  the  rest,  shot  him  through  the  head.  Vive  V  Assem 
bles  Rationale  ? 

M.  Varlin,  Delegate  of  Finances,  was  taken  prisoner  and 
shot  at  Montmartre.  Johannard,  member  of  the  Commune, 
was  taken  and  shot  at  Vincennes.  General  Eudes,  member  of 
the  Commune  and  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety,  was 
taken  at  Vincennes,  and,  as  was  the  custom,  immediately  shot. 
Lefrancois,  member  of  the  Commune,  was  taken  prisoner  at 
Rue  de  la  Banque,  and^  with  lawful  haste,  immediately  shot. 
M.  Jules  Miot  was  taken  on  Monday,  the  29th,  at  La 
Muette,  and,  for  the  sake  of  consistency,  immediately  shot. 
In  the  Rue  du  Temple  five  hundred  of  the  people — many 
women  and  a  few  children  among  them — were  taken  while 
bravely  defending  a  barricade.  They  were  immediately 
shot,  and  thrown  into  a  heap,  there  to  remain  till  they 
could  be  carted  away.  And  yet,  on  Sunday  morning,  after 
all  this,  and  ten  thousand  times  more  like  it,  the  Govern 
ment  of  Versailles  OFFICIALLY  declares,  "  These  expiations 
do  not  (..onsole  ws."  Bien !  Of  course  it  was  highly  proper 
that  the  poor  lamblings  should  be  "consoled."  But  where 
shall  one  find  perfect  "  consolation  "  ?  Let  us  hope  that  the 
gentle  Government  came  as  near  it  at  Satory  as  is  consist 
ent  with  the  limited  resources  of  poor  humanity. 

Poor  France !  In  the  conflagration  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
the  busts  of  all  the  monarchs  of  Europe  were  lost !  The 
busts  of  Queen  Victoria,  Prince  Albert,  the  King  and  Queen 
of  Portugal,  the  Kings  of  Prussia,  Belgium,  and  Italy,  the 
Czar  of  Russia,  the  Sultan  of  Turkey,  and  many  others  were 
destroyed  !  No  wonder  "  these  expiations  do  not  console 
us."  But  let  not  the  good  Government  despair;  for  I  have 
an  abiding  hope,  and  I  trust  a  well-founded  hope,  that  they, 
the  members  of  the  Versailles  Government,  may  some  day 
9 


,  gA    IRA. 

be  allowed  to  gaze  upon  the  oi-iginals  of  these  busts  in  that 
country  where  go  "  all  that  ever  reigned." 

It  was  not  until  Friday  that  the  Versailles  troops  began 
to  take  many  prisoners.  And  then  you  might  see  great 
droves  of  them  driven  along  the  streets  towards  Satory.  In 
one  body  there  were  as  many  as  five  thousand — men,  women, 
and  children.  For  the  most  part  they  were  bareheaded,  and 
many  of  them  were  without  shoes.  Some  had  on  blouses, 
and  some  no  coats  at  all.  Most  of  them  were  ragged  and 
dirty,  and  many  of  them  were  covered  with  dust  and  blood. 
The  women  were  in  tatters,  with  dishevelled  hair,  and  occa 
sionally  uttered  a  wild  cry  of  pain  and  anguish  as  they  were 
pricked  by  the  swords  of  the  Guards  to  hurry  them  along. 
The  drove  was  several  deep,  and  more  than  a  mile  long. 
They  were  driven  along  between  two  rows  of  cavalry.  The 
dust  and  smoke  was  so  thick  that  one  could  scareely  breathe. 
Many  of  them  were  wounded,  and  the  wounds  were  still 
bleeding ;  the  blood  dripping  along  the  street,  or  oozing  out 
and  saturating  their  clothes.  Some  were  exhausted  from 
loss  of  blood,  and  some — the  old  and  feeble — were  exhaiisted 
from  fatigue  and  the  thick  dust.  They  fell  prostrate  in  the 
street,  and  were  either  trampled  to  death  or  left  to  die  in  the 
heat  and  dirt.  Blinded  by  the  dust  and  smoke,  the  unhappy 
creatures  would  frequently  get  out  of  line,  which  was  not 
allowed..  They  were  shot  down,  or  thrust  through,  or 
whacked  to  death  with  swords.  And  then  they  were  either 
thrown  out  upon  the  sidewalk  or  left  to  be  trampled  into 
the  earth  by  the  horses  of  the  Guards.  Oh !  that  the  Ver 
sailles  Government  might  be  "  consoled  !  " 

The  members  of  the  Commune — those  who  had  not  been 
killed  or  were  not  at  the  barricades — when  the  Hotel  de 
Ville  was  abandoned,  retreated  to  the  Mairie  of  the  Eleventh 
Arrondissement. 


ST.    AKTOINE.  195 

It  was  on  Friday,  about  noon,  that  Citizen  Delescluze,  the 
Delegate  of  War,  embraced  his  colleagues,  who  were  still  with 
him,  and  quietly  set  out  toward  the  Chateau  d'Eau.  At 
the  Chateau  d'Eau  seven  enormous  barricades  had  been 
erected.  For  two  days  a  perfect  storm  of  balls  and  shells 
had  been  hurled  against  this  stronghold  from  the  batteries 
in  the  Rue  de  Turbigo  and  Boulevard  Magenta,  and  for 
thirteen  hours  it  had  sustained  a  most  terrible  attack  from 
every  direction.  But  one  street  opening  upon  the  place  was 
now  in  the  hands  of  the  people — Boulevard  Prince  Eugene,. 
The  people,  profiting  by  the  lessons  of  the  previous  days, 
had  taken  possession  of  the  houses  in  front  of  the  works  ; 
but  the  soldiers  climbed  upon  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  ad 
vanced  from  one  to  another,  and  poured  a  destructive  fire 
into  the  ranks  of  the  people  behind  the  works.  Delescluze 
proceeded  silently  along  the  Boulevard  Prince  Eugene,  with 
the  calm  indifference  of  a  stoic  philosopher.  Shells  and 
bullets  were  falling  and  whizzing  in  every  direction.  He 
•was  deep  in  thought,  thinking  not  of  himself,  but  of  the 
great  cause  that  now,  after  so  much  sacrifice,  was  lost  again. 
He  met  Gambon  and  Mirabeau  Holmes ;  Gambon  was  going 
to  Belleville ;  Mirabeau  to  .a  barricade  farther  down  the 
street,  to  bring  up  about  a  hundred  men  that  had  been  sta 
tioned  there.  Delescluze  only  said :  "  Lost  again.  Hu 
manity  will  look  to  another  time,  and,  maybe,  another  place, 
but  the  final  triumph  cannot  now  be  far  off.  It  will  be 
sn  iHciont  reward  if  we  have  hastened  it."  Several  officers 
and  citizens  gathered  around  him  and  entreated  him  to  turn 
back.  He  only  pressed  their  hands  and  kept  on  his  way. 
Delescluze  had  probably  done  more  than  any  other  man  to 
incite  the  people  to  resist  their  oppressors,  the  conspirators 
of  Versailles.  And  when  they  rose,  he  promised  to  remain 
with  them  to  the  last.  He  would  lead  them  to  success  or 


196  CA  IRA. 

he  would  die  in  their  midst.  The  cause  was  now  lost. 
Delescluze  was  going  to  prove  his  fidelity.  He  was  in  citi 
zen's  dress,  and  carried  in  his  hand  a  cane  that  he  had  carried 
constantly  for  many  years.  When  he  reached  the  barricade 
the  battle  was  at  its  height,  raging  with  inconceivable  fury. 
But  the  people  died  as  resolutely  as  they  fought.  There  were 
no  cries  of  pain  or  terror.  The  wounded  died  without 
groans.  There  was  no  sound  but  the  roar,  the  crash,  and 
the  shouting  of  the  assailants.  The  air  was  thick  with 
smoke ;  it  was  stifling.  The  people  had  been  at  their  posts 
in  the  midst  of  this  terrible  scene,  without  intermission,  for 
thirteen  hours,  many  of  them  for  two  days.  They  were 
covered  with  sweat,  many  with  blood,  and  blackened  with 
powder.  The  ground  was  strewn  with  splinters,  balls,  and 
fragments  of  shells.  The  gutters  were  flowing  with  blood. 
Broken  guns,  paving-stones,  and  pieces  of  furniture  were 
also  scattered  around.  When  Delescluze  reached  the  barri 
cade  he  was  recognized  by  many  of  the  people,  and  they 
greeted  him  with  a  shout  of  Vive  la  Commune!  Delescluxe 
responded  with  a  single  shout  of  Vive  VHumanite  !  took  his 
place  at  the  barricade  and  began  to  fire  with  his  revolver. 

The  carnage  was  now  fearful.  The  walls  were  battered 
almost  down,  and  the  people  were  falling  thick  under  the 
fire  of  the  chassepots.  About  two  o'clock  the  works"  were 
fiercely  assaulted  at  every  point.  Exhausted  by  fatigue, 
more  than  half  of  them  dead  upon  the  ground,  and  over 
powered  on  every  side,  the  brave  people,  though  they  fought 
with  the  fury  of  despair,  were  all  either  killed  or  disarmed. 
Not  a  man,  not  a  woman,  not  a  child  surrendered.  Every 
one  fought  to  the  last;  tilf'the  soldiers,  sick  of  carnage, 
wrested  their  arms  from  them. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  body  of  Delescluze  was  found, 
riddled  with  balls  and  surrounded  by  the  corpses  of  twenty- 


ST.   ASTOINE.  197 

eight  soldiers.  And  the  next  day  it  was  officially  announced 
by  the  Versailles  Government  that  "  the  too  guilty  Deles 
cluze  has  been  picked  up  dead  by  the  troops  of  Genera] 
Clinchant."  If  the  reader  would  elevate  himself  to  the  last 
height  of  moral  sublimity  possible  for  him  to  reach,  let  him 
contemplate,  for  a  while,  Citizen  Delescluze  on  his  way  to  the 
barricade  to  redeem  his  pledge  to  the  people.  In  such  men 
rest  the  best  hopes  of  Humanity.  They  may  be  "  picked  up 
dead  by  the  soldiers  of  General  Clinchant,"  or  the  soldiers 
of  any  general,  butcher,  or  tyrant  whatever ;  yea,  their 
bodies  may  be  burned  to  ashes,  and  the  ashes  given  to  the 
winds ;  their  pure,  heroic  deeds  may  all  be  falsified ;  their 
very  names  be  made  the  synonyme  of  every  infamy.  They 
may  find  no  place  in  the  Pantheon,  and  no  monument  may 
rise  to  their  memory.  Nay,  no  monument  will  rise ;  for  the 
people  for  whom  such  heroes  live,  and  for  whom  they  die, 
are  all  poor,  condemned  to  battle  with  famine,  unable  to 
raise  monuments  in  brass,  or  marble,  or  stone.  But  will 
they  die  ?  Will  they  be  consigned  to  ignominy,  even  though 
historians  add  their  little  mite  to  the  combined  powers  of 
ignorance  and  tyranny  ?  Verily,  no  !  Human  feeling  is  a 
wonderful  preserver  ;  immortal  as  eternity,  and  more  subtle 
than  the  planetary  ether,  surviving  alike  the  shock  of  em 
pires  and  successive  systems  of  thought  and  religion.  Nor 
can  tyranny,  with  all  its  manifold  appliances,  any  more  ex 
tract  this  subtle  and  powerful  essence  from  human  history, 
than  can  science  extract  the  electric  fluid  from  the  globe  itself. 
No  !  only  the  evil  dies ;  the  good  never  dies.  Have  you  ever 
done  one  good  thing ;  one  thing  for  Humanity,  completely 
forgetting  your  poor  self?  Thou  art  not  less  than  immortal. 
The  heroism  of  the  Gracchi,  branded  as  sedition,  and  charged 
with  every  infamy,  still  lives  to  warm  the  great  heart  of 
Humanity.  And  so  with  this  Delescluze.  Forgetful  of 


198  gA  IKA. 

self,  he  lived  a  life  entirely  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the  poor 
and  oppressed ;  and  when  the  hour  came  he  embraced  death, 
as  he  had  devoted  his  life,  without  a  murmur  and  without  a 
regret.  He,  too,  has  taken  his  place  in  the  constellation  of 
Humanity's  gods,  enveloped  in  the  glory  of  Humanity's 
love  and  blessings.  And  his  heroism  will  ever  live,  in  spite 
of  all  princes  and  politicians  and  priesthoods,  to  elevate  the 
affections,  clear  the  vision,  and  strengthen  the  arms  of 
heroes  that  shall  come  after. 

Gambon  had  said  that,  unless  sooner 'overtaken  by  death* 
he  would  carry  the  last  red  flag  that  floated  in  Paris.  He 
was  faithful  to  his  promise.  It  was  on  Sunday  morning, 
about  eleven  o'clock,  that  Belleville,  the  last  stronghold  of 
the  people,  was  taken.  Gambon  and  several  other  members 
of  the  Commune,  escorted  by  fifteen  boys,  foundlings  from 
the  hospital,  who  had  formed  themselves  into  ,a  company 
and  joined  the  forces  of  the  Commune,  established  themselves 
in  the  Mairie  of  the  Twentieth  Arrondissement.  Perceiving 
this  to  be  untenable,  they  retreated  to  the  Rue  Fontan-au- 
lioi.  They  carried  the  flag  of  the  Commune.  They  stopped 
at  a  restaurant  and  ordered  a  frugal  breakfast,  leaving  the 
foundlings  to  stand  guard,  with  a  bugle,  to  give  the  signal  if 
the  enemy  approached.  When  they  hud  finished  their  break 
fast  they  began  erecting  a  barricade.  Gambon  was  the  only 
one  who  wore  in  his  button-hole  the  badge  of  the  Commune. 
He  wore  also  on  his  lappel  a  head  of  Liberty  fixed  in  a  silver 
triangle,  on  the  three  sides  of  which  were  the  words  "  Liber 
ty,  .Equality,  Fraternity,  Commune  of  Paris."  The  barri 
cade  was  scarcely  half  finished,  when,  suddenly,  the  enemy 
was  upon  them.  Gambon  seised  the  flag  and  mounted  upon, 
the  barricade.  He  was  alone  upon  the  barricade.  All  the 
others  had  taken  to  flight.  He  fired  his  last  charge.  The 
enemy  rushed  upon  him  and  secured  him.  What  sort  of 


ST.    AXTOINE.  199 

man  was  this  Gambon?  and  how  shcrald  he  be  treated?  He 
ought  to  have  been  given  a  palace.  He  'ought  to  have  been 
placed  in  a  triumphal  car,  and  drawn  through  the  streets  to 
the  sound  of  music.  He  ought  to  have  seen  his  portrait  in 
the  Louvre  of  nations,  among  the  heroes  of  all  ages.  His 
ears  ought  to  have  been  greeted  with  plaudits.  Poets  ought 
to  have  composed  hymns  in  his  praise,  and  children  ought 
to  have  chanted  them  in  the  streets.  Why  ?  Because  for 
thirty  years  he  had  been  sacrificing  himself  for  the  Republic 
and  Liberty.  He  was  taken  to  the  Rue  de  la  Banque  and 
shot.  Let  him  rest  with  his  compatriots  and  the  heroes  of 
'89,  till  Fame,  from  the  Pantheon's  summit,  shall  welcome 
his  dust  to  its  rightful  home  ! 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  the  28th  of  May,  that  the  sun  in 
heaven — "  Liberty's  darling  " — struggled  through  the  clouds 
and  smoke  that  enveloped  the  heights  of  Belleville,  to  shed 
for  the  last  time  his  sympathetic  beams  upon  a  people  who, 
in  all  their  lives,  had  found  nothing  else  to  rejoice  at.  They 
had  not  felt,  and  could  not  possibly  feel,  any  other  sympathy, 
nor  see  any  other  smile.  With  the  springs  of  immortality 
within,  and  longing  for  the  unseen,  almost  unhoped  for, 
Better,  they  were  still  condemned,  as  their  fathers  had  been, 
by  a  civilization  based  upon  poverty,  ignorance,  and  fear,  to 
live  without  comfort  and  die  without  hope. 

In  a  small  back  room  of  one  of  the  houses  in  front  of  the 
barricade  a  young  soldier — a  citizen-soldier — lay  in  the  ago 
nies  of  death.  A  few  minutes  before  he  had  fallen,  while 
defe  11  cling  the  door  against  the  assailants.  The  young  man 
was  George  Walton.  He  was  too  near  gone  to  recognize  one 
of  his  attendants.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  dead.  The 
battle  was  raging  furiously;  the  enemy  seemed  determined 
to  occupy  this  house  at  all  hazards.  At  this  moment  an  of 
ficer  entered,  and  said  the  house  must  be  abandoned  in  half 


200  g 

an  hour,  as  it  was  necessary  to  fire  it.  There  were  two  at 
tendants  in  the  room  where  lay  the  body  of  George  Walton : 
one,  an  old  woman ;  the  other,  a  slight  figure,  dressed  in 
black,  bent  over  the  body,  kissing  the  fair  forehead,  and 
seemed  in  the  greatest  grief.  When  the  courier  informed 
them  that  the  house  would  be  fired  in  half  an  hour,  the  fig 
ure  kneeling  over  the  body  rose  and  said  to  the  woman : 

"  Madame,  this  young  man  is  a  near  relative  whom  I  have 
not  seen  in  many  years.  I  wish  to.  save  the  body.  I  have 
money  enough  to  make  you  and  your  daughter  comfortable, 
and  I  will  give  it  you  if  you  will  assist  me." 

"  Bien.     But  what  is  one  to  do  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  give  me,  quick,  some  of  your  daugh 
ter's  clothing." 

In  a  few  moments  James  Arnot  was  dressed  in  a  plain  but 
neat  suit  of  female  apparel ;  a  light,  airy  muslin  dress,  with 
lace  collar,  and  belt  of  black  ribbon,  contrasting  strangely 
with  the  roar  of  death  and  the  enveloping  pall  of  smoke. 
The  hair  which  had  seemed  to  be  turned  under  heretofore, 
was  loosened  and  fell  in  rich  tresses  upon  the  shoulders. 
And  even  iu.  the  midst  of  that  scene,  when  James  Arnot 
looked  down  upon  his  graceful  and  symmetrical  figure,  he 
was  startled  to  see  how  nearly  it  was  still  like  it  was  in  a 
far  country,  on  the  bank  of  a  great  river,  long  ago,  when 
he  was  last  dressed  in  similar  apparel.  He  went  to  the  dead 
body,  took  off  the  watch,  and  the  diamond  pin  from  the 
bosom.  Then  he  examined  the  pockets  and  found  a  diary 
and  several  letters,  two  in  a  large,  commercial  hand,  and  one 
in  an  anxious,  rather  trembling  female  hand,  both  of  which 
he  knew  full  well.  Just  at  this  moment  an  officer  entered — 
a  tall,  dark-faced  man,  of  high  forehead  and  steady  gaze. 
And  when  he  ordered  the  house  immediately  cleared,  and 
firod,  one  saw  that  his  words  were  low  and  tuneful,  more 


ST.   AXTOINE.  201 

like  the  voice  of  a  poet  or  artist  than  soldier.  He  walked 
on  into  the  back  room  ;  but  when  he  got  to  the  door  and 
saw  the  figure  at  the  side  of  the  dead  man,  he  suddenly 
stopped,  and  seemed  as  one  transfixed  to  the  spot.  He 
leaned  against  the  door-facing,  and  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
slip  of  paper :  "  To  Viola  Walton,  by  her  loving  mother." 
The  words  were  pronounced  aloud,  but  as  if  to  himself. 
James  Arnot  started,  looked  at  the  officer,  and  the  steady 
light  of  his  eye  became  wild  and  shifting.  But  the  heart  of 
a  woman  does  not  need  any  proof.  She  rushed  forward,  ex 
claiming,  "  Alberto  !  Alberto  !  "  and  fell  upon  the  Italian's 
bosom.  Then  she  drew  back,  and  gazed  into  his  face,  fear 
fully,  almost  timidly. 

"  My  own  !  My  long  lost !  My  little  violet  of  the  Missis 
sippi  !  "  and  he  kissed  her  forehead  again  and  again,  with  the 
eloquent  fervor  of  Italy.  Their  voices  were  dumb,  but 
their  hearts  were  active,  and,  through  their  own  mysterious 
medium,  soon  made  themselves  known  to  each  other.  Flow 
ing  out  like  the  aroma  from  the  uncased  perfume,  the  life  of 
each  mingled  with  the  other,  and  they  became  one.  If  there 
had  been  any  need  of  it,  there  was  no  time  to  tell  of  mistakes 
and  disappointments,  and  the  consequent  long,  long  years  of 
anguish  and  suffering  that  had  divided  them,  and  that  each 
had  borne  alone.  No !  The  remorseless,  unhasting,  but 
unresting  march  of  fate,  stops  not  for  individuals,  however 
high  or  low  they  may  be.  The  building  was  on  fire,  and  the 
flames  were  rapidly  approaching. 

The  body  of  George  Walton  was  placed  upon  a  blanket  and 
borne  out,  through  the  back  door,  into  a  neighboi'ing  building. 
In  an  inside  vest  pocket  they  found  a  little  trinket  which 
Viola  Walton  immediately  recognized  ;  a  tiny  golden  neck 
lace  which  she  herself  had  worn  when  a  child.  This  little 
necklace  was  fastened  by  a  small,  richly  studded  locket.  She 
<j* 


202  PA    IRA. 

opened  one  side  of  it  and  found  the  well-known  picture  of  her 
mother,  and  a  cloud  seemed  to  pass  over  her  features,  and 
she  hesitated  before  opening  the  other  side,  for  she  remem 
bered  now  that  her  own  picture  had  been  there,  and  she  was 
fearful  that  her  brother,  too,  had  abandoned  her,  and  taken 
out  the  picture,  ashamed  to  wear  it.  But  no !  The  boy 
had  trusted  to  his  own  feelings  ;  this  was  his  own  sister — if 
lost,  still  his  sister.  Sometimes  he  had  dreamed  that  she  was 
not  dead,  but  still  living,  somewhere  on  the  broad  earth,  may 
be  in  poverty  and  shame.  But  still  she  was  one  of  God's 
poor  suffering  creatures,  and  his  own  sister.  Many  and 
many  a  time  had  he  passionately  kissed  this  little  picture, 
and  vowed  within  himself  that  if  he  should  ever  find  her, 
though  in  the  lowest  den  of  shame,  not  all  the  hideous  social 
laws  framed  to  disgrace  and  damn  the  weak  and  unfortunate 
should  prevent  him  from  rescuing  her  and  acknowledging 
her  as  his  own  sister  ;  for  something  vaguely  told  him  that 
the  misfortune  was  hers,  the  fault  not  her  own.  But  misfor 
tune  or  fault,  his  course  would  be  the  same.  The  picture 
was  there :  the  bare,  white  arms,  the  childish  face,  the  short 
little  curls  about  the  forehead.  Again  she  knelt  and  covered 
the  face  of  the  noble  boy  with  kisses.  And  then  she  rested 
her  head  upon  the  Italian's  bosom,  telling  him  of  this  other 

joy- 
But  let  no  mortal  think  to  escape  the  iron  hand  of  fate. 

A  squad  of  soldiers  entered,  and  Alberto  Simona  and  Viola 
Walton  were  arrested.  Bribes  were  offered  in  vain  ;  in  vain 
Viola,  whose  face  was  now  again  lit  up  with  a  parting  gleam 
of  that  marvellous  beauty  whose  morning  light  had  waked  to 
music  the  hearts  of  her  worshippers,  softened  by  the  halo  of 
a  divine  pathos,  knelt  at  the  captain's  feet.  He  would 
not  allow  them  time  to  bury  their  dead  brother.  No  ! 
These  two  people  were  necessary  to  make  up  the  forty  thou- 


ST.   ANTOINE.  203 

sand  people  ;  the  number  which  the  assassins  of  Versailles 
had  determined  to  shoot  at  Satory.  The  captain,  for  a 
large  bribe,  could  only  be  induced  to  allow  them  fifteen  min 
utes.  There  was  another  woman  now  present,  besides  the 
one  that  had  come  with  them  from  the  burning  house. 
They  were  both  mothers,  and  had  both  lost  sons,  fighting  for 
the  Commune.  Here,  then,  was  common  ground,  as  misfor 
tune  ever  is.  A  sum  of  money  was  placed  in  their  hands, 
and  they  agreed  to  take  the  body,  place  it  in  a  metal  coffin, 
and  bury  it  neatly.  The  body  was  to  be  wrapped  in  a  red  flag 
and  buried,  dressed  just  as  it  now  was,  in  order  that  it  might 
the  more  certainly  be  identified.  The  Italian  then  clasped 
the  necklace  around  the  right  arm,  after  taking  out  one  of 
the  pictures — that  of  Viola — from  the  locket  and  putting  a 
little  lock  of  his  own,  Viola's,  and  their  brother's  hair  in  its 
place.  The  tiny  picture,  with  a  lock  of  hair  as  before,  was 
then  placed  in  an  envelope,  with  a  letter,  which  was  read  to 
the  women,  and  from  which  they  learned  that  they  would 
receive  a  double  reward  if  they  were  faithful  to  their  pro 
mises,  and  the  envelope  was  backed  to  Mr.  Walton,  at  At 
lanta,  in  Georgia.  At  the  suggestion  of  Simona,  this  was 
placed  in  another  envelope,  addressed  to  the  American  Min 
ister,  with  a  short  note  that  it  came  from  an  unfortunate 
countrywoman,  and  the  women  were  charged  to  deliver  it. 
Then  they  gave  them  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  was  written 
these  words,  to  which  they  both  signed  their  names :  "  George 
Walton  fell  on  the  28th  of  May,  1871,  fighting  for  the  liber 
ties  of  that  people  of  Paris  who  also,  in  perilous  times, 
came  to  the  rescue  of  his  own  people  in  their  struggle  for 
Independence." 

Their  time  was  now  out.  Each  one  knelt  down  and 
kissed  their  brother  a  final  adieu.  Then  they  embraced  the 
two  women,  and  marched  out  among  the  crowd  of  prisoners 


204:  <?A  IRA.  * 

at  the  door.  They  were  then  marched  towards  the  Chateau 
d'Eau,  where  a  column  of  eight  thousand  prisoners  from 
Belleville  had  halted  for  a  few  moments  to  wait  for  numerous 
sqiiads,  some  of  more  than  a  hundred,  and  some  of  only  two 
or  three,  coming  in  from  all  directions.  When  the  vast 
drove  moved  off  down  the  Boulevard  St.  Martin,  it  number 
ed  between  nine  and  ten  thousand.  When  the  head  of  the 
column  had  reached  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  prisoners  were  still 
defiling  upon  the  Place  Concorde,  the  rear  of  the  column 
reaching  as  far  back  as  the  Madeleine.  There  were  many 
old  men  in  this  drove  of  human  beings,  so  old  and  feeble, 
indeed,  that  few  of  them  ever  reached  their  destination. 
There  were  also  many  children,  some  under  ten  years  old. 
Also  more  than  two  Imndred  women.  When  the  column 
reached  the  gate  of  Satory  there  were  not  nine  thousand. 
The  brutal  guards  were  often  heard  to  boast  that  many  acci 
dents  happened  on  the  way.  When  an  accident  happened,  the 
poor  man  or  woman  who  had  fallen,  either  from  exhaiistion 
or  loss  of  blood,  was  simply  whacked  through  the  head  and 
thrown  upon  the  sidewalk.  J3ien  ! 


ST.  ANTOINE.  205 


CHAPTER  XV. 


" •  Formez  nne  sainto  alliance, 

Et  donnez-vous  la  main  ! '' — BERANQEB. 

THE  largest  butcher-pen  of  modern  times  is  Satory.  It  is 
in  the  form  of  a  parallelogram,  and  contains  several  acres. 
It  was  once  used  as  an  artillery  park,  and  there  still  remain 
the  stables  used  for  the  horses ;  but  this  was  before  it  had 
occurred  to  the  Government  that  they  would  serve  the  cause 
of  justice  and  Humanity  by  transporting  hither  forty  thou 
sand  people — exclusive  of  those  who  fell  on  the  way  by 
"  accident " — to  be  shot.  It  is  said  that  these  forty  thousand 
were  the  poorest  animals  ever  slaughtered  in  Paris ;  which, 
indeed,  is  not  wonderful,  seeing  that  in  the  case  of  human 
animals  the  ordinary  process  must  be  reversed — from  fatten 
ing  to  starving.  It  is  stated  that  the  Government  would 
have  kept  these  forty  thousand  penned  longer — at  least 
through  the  heats  of  summer — but  for  two  reasons.  They 
were  afraid  that  natural  death  from  starvation  and  bad 
treatment — which  was  at  least  natural  for  these  poor  devils — 
might  rob  the  muskets  of  some  of  their  lawful  victims. 
For  one,  I  give  little  credit  to  this,  as  I  cannot  imagine  the 
Government  was  so  short-sighted  as  not  to  see  that  they 
could  send  back  to  Paris  any  morning  or  evening  for  a  couple 
of  thousands  to  supply  any  deficiency  or  supposed  meagreness 
of  the  offering.  The  controlling  reason  seems  to  have  been 
this,  that  the  Government  was  in  hot  pursuit  of  "  consola 
tion,"  and  eager  for  the  denouement.  Of  course,  if  the 
victims  had  been  kept  penned  they  would  all  have  died  of 


QA    IRA. 

starvation  and  fevers  after  a  while.  But  this  diablement 
snail-paced  "  consolation  "  was  as  good  as  no  "  consolation  " 
at  all!  So  it  was  decided  that  the  "expiation"  should,  if 
possible,  be  huge  enough  and  brisk  enough  to  "  console " 
themselves  and  satisfy  all  reasonable  demands  of  tyranny 
and  injustice  the  world  over. 

The  butcher-pen  of  Satory  is  surrounded  by  walls,  and 
when  the  great  drove  of  nine  thousand  victims,  less  what 
had  fallen  on  the  way  by  accident,  entered  it,  there  were 
numerous  holes  in  the  walls  through  which  ferocious  cannons 
scowled  ominously.  When  the  vast  drove  arrived,  the  old 
stables  had  already  been  tilled  to  suffocation,  and  many 
thousands  were  huddled  together,  here  and  there,  and  enclosed 
by  ropes.  The  drove  was  marched  in  a  short  distance  from  the 
g.ite,  and  being  huddled  close  together,  a  rope,  tied  at  conve 
nient  distances  to  stakes,  was  drawn  around  them,  and  a 
strong  guard  with  chassepots  put  over  them.  They  were 
directly  in  front  of  several  large  guns  charged  with  grape 
and  canister,  which  were  ordered  to  fire  into  the  crowd 
upon  the  slightest  manifestation  of  disorder.  All  the  pre 
vious  night  the  rain  had  been  falling  almost  constantly,  and 
the  wheels  of  artillery  and  ambulance  wagons,  together  with 
the  trampling  of  horses,  men,  women,  and  children,  had  con 
verted  the  pen  into  a  horrible  quagmire.  One  sank  over 
one's  shoes  in  the  mud  and  water.  The  rain  had  now  also 
commenced  to  pour  again,  and  beat  upon  the  poor  shivering 
wretches  pitilessly.  Many,  as  I  have  said,  had  been 
wounded  ;  some  of  the  wounds  were  sore,  and  some  still  fresh 
and  bleeding ;  so  that  when  a  squad  was  moved  from  one  place 
to  another  for  any  cause,  to  be  shot  mainly,  one  might  see 
stains  of  blood  here  and  there  and  little  pools  of  bloody  water. 
Some  of  these  wounded  had  their  friends  with  them,  who 
did  ail  they  could  for  them,  which  was  very  little.  Others 


ST.  ANTOINE.  207 

neglected.  Many  were  very  old,  some  very  yonng ; 
lost  of  them  were  fainting  from  fatigue,  and  all  of  them 
fere  hungry.  They  were  too  tired  to  stand.  They  threw 
lemselves  upon  the  ground,  and  the  water  settled  around 
them,  sometimes  several  inches  deep.  Guards  were  posted 
thickly  everywhere ;  they  were  for  the  most  part  savage, 
lad,  covered  with  wet  arid  mud ;  their  faces  were  begrimed 
with  smoke  and  powder,  which,  mingling  with  the  rain  that 
beat  in  their  faces,  pi'esented  'a  frightful  appearance.  The 
wretched  prisoners  were  nearly  all  bareheaded,  many  bare 
footed,  and  the  great  majority  scantily  dressed  or  in  dirty 
tatters.  They  were  shivering,  their  lips  pale  and  bloodless, 
and  their  teeth  chattering  in  the  cold,  drifting  rain.  Simona 
pulled  off  his  coat  and  put  it  around  Viola's  shoulders,  and 
bribed  one  of  the  guards  to  throw  him  a  miserable  piece  of 
puncheon  to  stand  upon.  This  was  not  allowable,  and  so 
they  resorted  to  the  following  stratagem  :  Simona  advanced 
towards  the  rope  with  an  air  of  insolence;  the  guard,  who. 
already  had  the  puncheon  in  his  hand  as  if  .to  place  it  for 
his  own  feet,  hurled  it  violently  at  Simoiia  as  if  he  meant  to 
knock  him  down.  Thus  was  Viola  kept  out  of  the  mud, 
which  was  more  than  ankle-deep.  But  this  proceeding  came 
near  costing  the  Italian  his  life  ;  for  whe^i  the  guard  threw 
the  puncheon  at  him  another  near  by  exclaimed,  "  Shoot  the 
wretch  !  "  and  he  was  just  about  to  d»  it  himself,  when  the 
guard,  with  an  oath,  informed  him  that  he  could  take  care 
of  his  own  beat. 

Simona  regretted  that  they  could  not  be  lodged  in  one 
of  the  stables,  but  in  truth  it  was  better  to  be  out  in  the 
rain  than  to  be  inside  of  one  of  these  places  and  have  to 
breathe  the  disgusting  atmosphere.  The  atmosphere  was 
noisome  in  the  last  degree  ;  it  seemed  impossible  to  breathe 
it  an  hour  and  live.  To  the  natural  stench  of  the  stable 


208  gA  IRA. 

was  added  the  bad  odors  3xhaled  from  many  bodies  crowded 
together,  all  dirty,  and  some  sick  and  dying,  and  the  foul 
breaths,  many  doubly  so  from  most  nauseous  whiskey  which 
had  been  swallowed  by  the  miserable  wretches  in  hopes  of 
deadening  their  fearful  sufferings.  Here  were  many  disgust 
ing,  or  rather  say  pitiful  faces,  and  they  scowled  at  you 
sullenly,  silently,  as  you  passed  along.  Now  and  then  you 
found  one  that  tried  to  smile ;  but  it  was  a  disheartened, 
sickly,  hopeless  smile.  "  It  was  wonderful,"  says  an  ob 
server,  "  to  see  such  a  number  of  ignoble  faces,  and  with 
such  a  vile  expression,  brought  together."  Considering  the 
previous  history  of  the  Versailles  Government,  I  think  it 
not  wonderful  at  all  that — Paris  conquered — they  should  be 
"  brought  together"  and  that,  too,  just  as  they  were — in 
these  identical  horrible  pens  and  stables. 

That  there  should  exist  "  such  a  number  of  ignoble  faces, 
and  with  such  a  vile  expression ; "  nay,  that  there  should 
exist  even  in  a  single  city  twenty  times  "  such  a  number  of 
ignoble  faces,  and  with  such  a  vile  expression,"  cannot  be 
wonderful  to  any  man  at  all  acquainted  either  with  the  cruel 
history  of  Humanity,  or  with  the  pi'esent  sickening  condition 
of  the  human  race  even  in  the  most  civilized  countries. 
Wonderful?  Just  .God  !  The  only  wonder  is  that  the  vast 
majority  of  the  race  in  civilized  countries  have  not  sunk 
into  savages  and  brute%.  Condemn  a  family,  or  a  colony,  to 
a  thousand  dismal  years  of  grossest  ignorance  and  darkest 
superstition ;  sickness  without  relief,  and  hunger  without 
the  hope  of  bread ;  winter  without  fire  or  clothing,  and  cou- 
-tinued  toil  without  hope  of  bettering  their  condition ;  sur 
round  them  with  every  misery ,-and  deny  them  every  comfort ; 
heap  upon  them  every  ill,  and  shut  out  from  them  every 
hope  save  that  which  gleams  once  in  a  century  through  the 
fierce  but  fitful  fires  of  revolution ;  place  them,  moreover,  in 


ST.  ANTOINE.  209 

contact  with  those  whom  they  regard  as  their  oppressors, 
and  in  the  midst  of  boundless  but  unlawful  plenty  and  lux 
ury,  and  how  should  they  have  any  other  than  "  ignoble 
faces,  with  such  a  vile  expression  ?  "  One  thing  was  observ 
able  on  all  hands :  there  were  no  repentings  of  what  they 
had  done,  no  curses,  no  revilings,  no  reproaches  against  their 
chiefs ;  but  when  they  were  shot  they  unanimously  shouted, 
Vive  la  Commune  f  Every  man  and  woman  and  child  of 
them  went  to  heaven  for  it. 

If  our  friends  were  sorry  that  they  had  not  been  lodged 
in  one  of  the  houses,  they  were  glad  when  they  found  that 
the  women's  stable  Avas  already  crowded,  and  consequently 
they  would  not  be  separated,  at  least  for  the  night.  And 
knowing  this,  they  rightly  j  udged  that  they  would  probably 
not  be  separated  at  all ;  for  it  was  certain  that  a  large  num 
ber  of  them  would  be  picked  out  to  be  shot  next  morning ; 
and  Simona,  having  been  an  officer  and  well  known,  could 
hardly  hope  to  escape.  Towards  night  the  rain  had  ceased, 
the  moon  was  up  and  occasionally  shone  through  rifts  in  the 
white  clouds  scudding  away  to  the  west.  There  was  noth 
ing  to  disturb  the  solemn,  prison-like  silence,  save  the 
monotonous  slush,  slush,  of  the  guards,  and  the  occasional 
sharp  "  qui  vive  "  of  the  sentries  outside  the  gates.  Soon 
the  clouds  cleared'  away,  the  stars  shone  out,  and  a  gentle 
wind  began  to  blow.  The  two  lovers,  long  separated,  and  , 
made  acquainted  with  every  grief,  thought  not  of  rest,  even 
if  rest  had  been  possible.  Simona  now  learned  for  the  first 
time  that  their  child  was  dead,  or  supposed  to  be,  long  since. 
He  did  not  even  know  the  child's  name ;  and  when  she  said 
"  Alberta  Simonetta,"  he  covered  her  with  kisses. 

"  My  angel,"  said  he,  "we  shall  be  separated  in  the  morn 
ing  ;  I  shall  be  taken  away ;  I  shall  be  killed ;  and  you  will 
be  left  alone." 


210  gA  IRA. 

She  said  nothing,  but  she  had  i%esolved  that  this  shcmld 
not  be.  He  continued — "  And  I  am  troubled  that  we  have 
never  yet  been  united  according  to  the  forms  of  law." 

"  Trouble  not  yourself  about  that,  my  love  ;  it  will  all  be 
one  when  we  have  passed  over  and  met  on  the  other  side. 
Think  you  not,  dear  Alberto,  that  after  all  the  highest  law 
is  the  law  of  the  heart  ?  " 

"  Heaven  bless  you  for  that,  my  sweet !  Yes ;  and  that  lias 
been  my  sole  comfort  through  all  these  miserable  years. 
Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  sweet,  my  precious  flower !  " 
Then,  after  a  moment,  he  continued — "  But  it  has  occurred  to 
me — suppose,  my  love,  my  life,  that  we  here  to-night,  in  sight 
of  Heaven,  solemnly  join  our  hands,  as  our  hearts  already  are, 
and  make  our  sacred  vows?  We  are  already  in  the  midst 
of  the  great  Temple  of  God ;  his  throne  shall  be  our  altar, 
the  silent  stars  shall  be  our  witnesses,  and  our  ceremony  shall 
be  the  sacred  vows  of  our  own  hearts  to  each  other." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Viola,  filled  with  the  light  of  poetry  and 
love,  "  for  see  1  the  beautiful  full  moon  hath  shone  out  to 
weave  for  us  our  bridal  wreaths,  and  the  sweet  night-wind 
shall  be  our  marriage  hymn." 

And  there,  before  the  altar  of  the  Great  Unseen,  in  the 
midst  of  his  holy  Temple,  and  crowned  with  a  coronal  of 
silvery  light,  these  two  joined  their  hands  together,  and  re 
peated  the  vows  making  them  one  in  life  and  in  death,  in 
body  and  in  spirit,  in  time  and  in  eternity.  And  they  felt, 
rightly  too,  the  ceremony  more  sacred  than  if  it  had  been 
performed  by  priest  or  magistrate.  And  then  he  kissed  her 
on  the  forehead,  and  she  leaned  her  head — alas  !  how  much 
suffering  had  it  endured — upon  his  bosom.  Alas,  alas ! 
how  pitiful  and  mean  are  all  "our  shams  and  make-believes, 
"  legal  arrangements,"  when  measured  by  the  grand  reality  ! 
Vriieu  Simona  spoke  again  he  said  : 


ST.   ANTOINE.  211 

"When  you  said,  just  now,  my  Violet,  that  the  sweet 
night-wind  should  be  our  marriage  hymn,  did  it  occur  to 
you  that  it  might  also  be  something  else  ?  " 

"  What  else,  my  Alberto  ?  " 

"  Might  it  not  also  be  our  parting  hymn  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  our  requiem  too.  But  consider,  this  sweet  wind 
is  also  the  requiem  of  departing  winter,  and  the  herald  of 
approaching  summer.  This  is  the  last;  the  dark  days  are 
past,  and  the  joyous  are  come.  So  let  it  be  with  us,  my 
Alberto ;  our  stormy  days  are  past,  arid  we  euter  the  fields 
of  sweet-scented  summer." 

Next  morning's  sun  rose  clear  and  beautiful ;  and  the 
birds  were  out,  singing,  in  strange  contrast  with  the  sui-- 
rounding  waste  of  mud  and  water.  Some  of  the  people  were 
trying  to  dry  by  the  sun ;  many  were  coughing  and  wheez 
ing  from  colds  they  had  taken  ;  some  were  dying,  and  a  few 
were  dead.  Early  in  the  morning,  as  had  been  expected,  a 
body  of  three  hundred  gendarmes  marched  in,  and  their  offi 
cers  immediately  began  to  pick  out  from  among  those  last 
brought  in,  all  the  regular  soldiers — of  which  there  were  few 
— officers  and  chiefs  of  the  Commune,  and  the  petroleuses, 
for  immediate  execution. 

They  had  already  called  out  more  than  a  hundred,  and 
Simona  had  bi-gun  to  think  that  maybe  he  would  not  be 
taken,  when  an  officer  came  up  to  him  and  said,  "  You  are 
Simona,  the  Colonel  of  staff  to  La  Cecillia  " — half  asserting- 
ly,  half  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Italian,  "  I  am  Alberto  Simona,  Col 
onel  of  staff  to  the  patriot-general  La  Cecillia ;  I  have 
f>u<jht  for  liberty  with  Garibaldi  in  Italy,  with  Jefferson 
]>avis  in  America,  and  with  the  Commune  in  Paris. 
If  that  be  enough  to  entitle  one  to  die  for  it,  then  am  1 
ready." 


212  £A    IRA. 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  the  officer  to  Viola — "  are  a  petro- 
lense  ?  "  Viola  answered  by  shouting  defiantly,  "  Vive  la 
Commune !  "  Simona  was  thunderstruck.  Viola  was  no 
petr  dense  ;  she  told  him  she  was  not.  But  what  was  done 
could  not  be  undone ;  and  they  marched  out  with  the  hun 
dred  and  fifty  victims. 

But  just  as  they  were  leaving  the  crowd  a  strange  event 
happened,  which  caused  the  Italian  to  tremble,  and  Viola 
almost  to  sink  to  the  earth.  A  small,  dark  man,  of  lean  face 
and  burning  black  eye,  stepped  up  beside  them  and  said  in  a 
hurried  but  revengeful  tone  : 

"  Ha !  Italian,  and  your  Mississippi  flower !  1  come  to 
redeem  my  pledge ;  your  lives  have  been  miserable;  I  will 
make  your  death  so.  Did  you  think  to  die  content  ?  Buh  ! 
I  tell  you  a  secret.  Your  child  still  lives — '  Alberta  Simon- 
etta ' — (and  he  called  the  name  with  suppressed  rage) — she 
is  in  a  work-shop,  one  step  from  the  concert  room.  If  you 
could  only  live  you  could  save  her.  Adieu."  He  darted  quickly 
back  into  the  crowd,  and  they  two  were  hurried  along.  Now 
indeed  it  was  hard  to  die.  These  two  had  suffered  much  in 
their  lives;  but  the  hardest  blow,  it  seemed,  had  been  re 
served  for  the  last.  But  something  must  be  done,  and  that 
speedily.  It  occurred  to  them  to  write  a  note  to  their  fa 
ther,  Mr.  Walton,  and  trust  to  one  of  the  soldiers  to  deliver 
it  to  the  American  Minister. 

"  My  poor,  poor  father !  "  cried  Viola  in  anguish  ;  "  he 
will  not  know  where  to  go;  he  will  die  of  grief." 

•'  Yes,  your  father  is  old — will  be  borne  down  with  grief — 
will  not  know  where  to  seek.  I  know  one  of  your  country 
men  ;  I  saved  his  life  once_in  Italy,  and  he  made  me  prom 
ise  him  faithfully  if  *he  could  ever  serve  me,  at  any  cost,  to 
call  upon  him.  Strange  that  I  should  meet  him  here  in 
Paris  and  save  his  life  the  second  time.  He  was  a  member 


ST.   ANTOINE.  213 

of  the  Commune ;  but  he  escaped.  Let  us  write  to  him — 
to  be  given  to  your  father  in  case  it  does  not  come  into  his 
hands.  I  have  his  address  here — '  Mirabeau  Holmes,  Atlan 
ta,  Ga.,  TJ.  S.  A.' "  These  words  were  spoken  half  aloud, 
half  to  himself  apparently.  But  it  was  agreed  that  this  was 
the  course  to  be  adopted.  As  they  approached  the  ground 
where  was  drawn  up  the  corps  of  execution,  they  observed 
a  knot  of  iudividiials  in  plain  citizen's  dress,  and  with  note 
books  in  their  hands,  whom  they  at  once  took  to  be  report 
ers  for  the  great  newspaper  press.  There  were  several 
Englishmen,  and  evidently  one  American,  a  tall,  spare 
man,  who  seemed  restless.  Simona  called  out  to  know  if 
there  was  an  American  on  the  ground.  The  tall,  restless 
man  immediately  held  up  his  hand,  and  obtaining  permission 
from  the  officer,  advanced.  They  spoke  a  few  words ;  the 
tall  man  asked,  as  a  favor  to  the  paper  he  represented,  to  be 
allowed  fifteen  minutes  to  converse  with  the  prisoners,  one 
of  whom  was  his  country-woman ;  and  what  would  probably 
have  been  denied  to  any  dictate  of  humanity,  was  readily 
accorded  to  the  representative  of  the  great  New  York 
newspaper.  An  American  is  almost  sure  to  be  good  at 
heart.  The  tall  man  was  much  affected  at  the  brief  recital 
of  the  sad  story  of  the  Italian  patriot  and  his  unfortunate, 
still  beautiful  country-woman.  He  pledged  them  the  honor 
of  himself,  of  his  paper,  and  of  his  country,  to  execute  their 
•wishes  to  the  utmost  of  his  power.  He  bade  them  adieu. 
The  command  was  given.  "  VIVE  LA  COMMUNE  !  "  The 
hundred  and  fifty  were  dead. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


he  seemed 


For  dignity  composed,  and  high  exploit : 
But  all  wns  false  and  hollow ;  though  his  tongue 
Dropp'd  manna,  and  could  make  the  worse  appear 
The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 

Maturest  counsels ;  " 

PARADISE  LOST. 

MEANWHILE  several  things  have  come  to  pass  in  America ; 
notably,  in  the  hub  of  Georgia.  In  at  least  one  of  these 
events  Clarence  Hall  was  doubly  interested.  They  were 
both  girls,  nice  little  wee  things.  Their  beauty  was  not  like 
that  of  the  full  moon  in  a  dark  sky ;  they  were  much  too 
small  for  that.  They  rather  resembled  little  twin  twinkling 
stars.  But  what  man  was  ever  satisfied  with  a  girl-baby? 
Have  not  the  Spaniards  this  proverb,  *'  Guays  padre,  que 
otra  hija  os  nace  ?  "  And  have  not  we  found  it  necessary  to 
translate  it  into  English,  thus — Alas,  father  !  another  misfor 
tune  (daughter)  is  born  to  you  ?  Manifestly,  this  must  be 
done  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  the  times.  Clarence  Hall  was 
very  glad ;  but  he  was  a  shade  disappointed.  In  fact,  upon 
reflection,  he  was  to  a  small  extent  doubly  disappointed. 
Here  was  a  clear  loss ;  it  might  ruin  everything.  Why  might 


216  (?A  IK  A. 

not  Clarence  Hall  some  day  be  President  of  the  United  States? 
And  why  might  not  his  son  be,  after  him  ?  He  had  had  better 
opportunities  than  Puritan  John  Adams,  and  was  a  much 
better  man.  His  son  would  be  equal  to  John  Quincy,  if 
metaphysicians  tell  the  truth,  at  the  tender  age  of  one  second. 
Might  not  education  do  the  rest  ?  But  this  xinfortunate  de 
lay  might  spoil  e  very  tiling !  Clarence  Hall  and  his  pretty 
wife  and  babies  lived  in  a  nice  little  house  out  on  Peach-treo 
street.  To  be  sure,  they  did  not  live  in  grand  style,  or  any 
thing  approaching  to  it.  But  still  they  lived  rather  expen 
sively,  considering  they  only  had  about  two  thousand  dollars 
to  begin  with,  that  Clarence  was  only  a  poor  Attorney  with 
an  income  not  exceeding  five  hundred  dollars,  and  that  Mr. 
Dearing,  for  all  his  grand  pedigree,  could  do  nothing  for 
them.  Clarence  Hall  was  not  without  common  sense,  and, 
in  higher  matters  than  every-day  affairs  are  supposed  to  be, 
he  had  also  considerable  practical  sagacity.  So  that  when  ho 
was  married  he  knew  that  he  ought  to  take  a  comfortable 
little  house  in  some  other  part  of  the  city  than  on  aristocratic 
Peach-tree.  There  was  a  neat  little  brick  house  with  flowers 
and  terraced  yard  covered  with  a  mat  of  rich  green  grass,  on 
Marietta,  which  suited  his  taste  exactly ;  and  as  for  the  loca. 
tion,  why  it  was  enough  that  Mrs.  Sutherland  was  almost 
next-door  neighbor.  Before  speaking  to  Annie,  Clarenco 
wished  to  know  what  Mr.  Dearing  would  say  to  the  place  as 
a  home  for  them.  Mr.  Dearing  was  not  pleased  with  it.  Then 
Clarence  mentioned  a  pretty  little  place  with  shady  walks  in 
a  different,  quarter  of  the  city  ;  this  was  out  on  Mt.  Vernon 
street,  where  the  Malcombs  lived.  But  this  was  entirely 
too  far  from  Mr.  Dearing's,_  And  then  it  occurred  to  him 
for  the  first  time  that  perhaps  almost  anything  would  be  ob- 
iectionable  but  a  somewhat  pretentious  establishment  ou 
Peach-tree.  Of  course,  under  all  the  circumstances,  in  spite 


PEACII-TKEE.  217 

of  his  good  sense,  nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  "Mr. 
Hall's  notions  and  prospects  should  expand  to  meet  the  oc 
casion.  And  so  the  house  on  Peach-tree,  which  cost  more 
than  the  whole  of  his  present  income — the  word  present  being 
always  italicized  when  he  thought  of  his  condition  and  pros 
pects — was  taken,  and  of  course  must  be  furnished  with  some 
degree  of  correspondence. 

The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  when  they  were  married 
and  at  home  Mr.  Hall  was  already  in  debt  several  hundred 
dollars,  and,  besides,  immediately  began  to  live  beyond  bis 
income — his  present  income.  The  careful  observer  of  human 
destinies  needs  not  another  word  to  help  him  to  the  conclu 
sion  that,  whatever  his  natural  talents — and  they  were  of  a 
high  order — whatever  his  attainments — and  they  were  in 
keeping  with  his  talents — whatever  his  ambitious  hopes — 
and  they  were  large  and  generous — the  scales  were  now 
turned  against  him.  But  not  irretrievably  so.  What !  will 
not  genius  rise  superior  to  fate  ?  Will  not  perseverance 
remove  every  difficulty,  surmount  every  obstacle,  and  at 
last  attain  the  hoped-for  eminence  ?  Yes,  if  Humanity  have 
pressing  need  of  it.  Does  not  such  need  always  exist? 
Allans  !  But  come  ;  whatever  may  be  our  differences  concern 
ing  providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate,  here  is  a  plat 
form  broad  enough  for  all  of  us  to  stand  upon :  persever 
ance,  with  help  enough,  can  surround  itself  with  difficulties 
which  itself  may  not  remove.  How  shall  genius  soar  if  its 
wing  be  clipped  ?  Shall  the  eagle  ascend,  though  chained  to 
an  anvil  ?  Plainly,  I  think,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  graAdta- 
tion  in  the  world. 

But  speaking  of  Clarence   Hall's  babies  (in  terms  of  the 

law),  he  half-way  ventured  to  express  to  his  better  half  just 

a  slight  regret  that  it  had  not  seemed  good  to  providence  to 

send  them  at  least  one  boy.     "  Oh,  Clarence  !  "  exclaimed  his 

10 


218  gA  IKA. 

wife,  "  how  can  you  say  that  ?  Are  not  you  afraid  God  will 
send  a  judgment  upon  you  for  talking  so?"  Alas,  al;is  ! 
The  judgment  soon  came,  sure  enough :  one  of  the  babies 
died.  vOf  course,  he  had  better  understanding  than  to  sup 
pose  this  to  be  a  judgment  sent  upon  him  ;  but  his  wife  had 
not.  He  was  both  surprised  and  hurt :  surprised  that  his 
wife  should  entertain  a  notion  so  narrow,  and,  as  he  thought, 
so  unworthy  of  her ;  and  hurt  that  she  should  mention  it  on 
such  an  occasion,  even  if  she  believed  it.  The  first  shocked 
his  reason,  and  could  not  but  give  him  at  least  an  intimation  of 
how  far  intellectually  his  wife  was  below  himself;  for  though  a 
sincere  Christian,  he  thought  he  could  easily  separate  the  truth 
from  superstition  ;  forgetting  entirely  that,  however  easy  it 
might  have  seemed  in  his  case,  still  it  was  an  undertaking 
in  which  the  greatest  minds,  to  say  nothing  of  his  pretty 
little  wife,  have  almost  universally  failed.  But  Jiis  sensibili 
ties  were  also  hurt.  And  it  was  this  probably  that  concern 
ed  him  even  more  than  the  other,  for  he  too  was  still  the 
unconscious  slave  of  the  past  in  so  far  as  to  believe  that 
woman's  only  business  here  was  to  love  some  particular  man 
with  all  her  might,  and  to  furnish  him  an  object  upon  which 
to  bestow  his  surplus  affection,  and  particularly  his  protect 
ive  aspirations.  A  woman  should  love  her  husband,  look 
up  to  him  in  the  coarse  affairs  of  will  and  intellect,  anticipate 
if  possible  all  his  wishes  ;  in  a  word,  envelope  him,  transport 
him,  in  a  whole  flood  of  affection.  People  were,  and  are  to 
this  day  mostly,  especially  in  the  Empire  State,  so  simple  as 
to  consider  marriage  an  institution — they  object  to  the  word 
partnership — in  which  the  husband  was  bound  to  furnish  the 
brains  and  the  wife  the  heart._  Well,  had  Clarence  Hall  got 
the  thing  he  wanted  ?  No,  truly ;  but  he  had  got  the  thing 
he  thought  he  wanted.  Mrs.  Hall  was  as  devoted  a  little 
wife  as  any  connoisseur  could  have  wished.  She  loved  her 


PEACH-TREE.  219 

husband  to  the  last  extent  of  her  capacity,  almost  worshipped 
him.  As  for  his  part,  why,  he  had  already  begun  to  feel  that 
he  had  something  to  protect  and  provide  for.  What  he 
really  wanted  was  a  companion ;  he  thought  that  a  woman  of 
certain  qualities,  which  seemed  to  him  altogether  adorable, 
would  make  the  perfect  companion.  Xow,  he  had  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  marry  his  own  incarnate,  ideal  woman.  Still, 
as  we  have  seen,  he  had  even  now  begun  to  feel  somewhat 
disappointed.  Alas !  Clarence  Hall,  you  had  not  learned 
the  most  important,  probably,  of  all  lessons — that  the  most 
perfect  companionship,  the  ideal  of  marriage,  can  only  exist 
between  people  equal  in  intellect  and  in  culture. 

The  Malcoinbs  lived  on  Mount  Yernon  street.  Mr.  Mai- 
comb  was  engaged  in  an  extensive  business,  and  was  making 
money  rapidly.  He  had  also  been  prevailed  on  by  all  parties 
— for  his  splendid  executive  and  financial  abilities,  and  rare 
judgment  in  all  practical  matters,  as  well  as  his  great  in- 
iluence  as  a  business  man,  were  acknowledged  on  all  hands — 
to  accept  the  office  of  Mayor  of  the  city.  And  this  was  a 
good  sign,  for  two  reasons :  first,  it  indicated  the  decay  01 
strong  party  animosities ;  for  three  years  before,  if  any  man 
had  dared  to  suggest  Mr.  Malcomb  as  a  suitable  man  for 
democrats  to  vote  into  an  office  of  honor  and  trust,  he  woiild 
not  only  have  been  politically  outlawed,  but  a  strong  effort, 
and  probably  a  successful  one,  would  have  been  made  for  his 
social  outlawry.  Such  an  effort  had  in  fact  been  made 
against  Mr.  Malcomb  himself;  but  owing  to  his  great  in 
fluence  with  his  church,  with  his  old  party  associates,  with 
business  men,  and,  notably,  with  that  very  small  but  powerful 
class  whose  independence  and  elevation  of  thought  and  cul 
ture  raise  them  above  the  heavy  and  noisome  atmosphere  of 
ignorance  and  prejudice,  and  which  in  this  Empire  State 
probably  finds  its  highest  representative  in  the  venerable 


220 

Chancellor  of  the  State  University,  the  effort  had  signally  and 
miserably  failed.  To  be  sure,  one  pompous  old  aristocratic 
ass,  with  the  shallowness  peculiar  to  his  order,  chiefly  remark 
able  for  these  three  things — his  relationship  to  the  great 
statesman  of  his  name,  his  voluminous,  vast,  bottomless,  and 
interminable  agricultural  erudition,  and  his  infinite  boring 
proclivities — did  attempt  to  put  the  scheme  into  execution. 
But  this  essay  awoke  in  Mr.  Malcomb  no  other  feeling  than 
a  regret  that  in  a  few  days  he  should  have  to  devote  the  ac 
customed  fifteen  hours  to  the  old  gold-headed  cane,  that  ho 
might  explain  away  his  conduct.  And  in  the  second  place, 
this  compromise  of  the  two  parties  was  a  good  sign,  because 
it  showed  that  the  business  men  were  taking  matters  of  im 
portance  into  their  own  hands  ;  that  not  party  bickerings  and 
word-quibbles,  but  questions  of  material  wealth  and  progress, 
should  enter  as  the  important  elements  into  the  management 
of  their  municipal  affairs.  And  the  acceptance  of  this  office 
also  shows  to  advantage  one  of  the  prominent  traits  of  Mi'. 
Malcomb's  character — his  willingness  to  serve  the  people  in 
any  capacity  in  which  he  could  be  of  benefit  to  them.  There 
was  probably  not  a  man  in  the  State,  who,  having  filled 
the  high  offices  that  Mr.  Malcomb  had,  would  have  accepted 
the  office  of  Mayor. 

Robert  Malcomb  married  Betty  Broughton,  and  had  made  a 
pretty  clear  start  in  pursuit  of  the  object  which  he  ever  kept 
steadily  in  view ;  he  was  already  receiving  at  least  his  pro 
portionable  part  of  the  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  dollars 
annually  contributed  by  this  little  city  to  the  health  and 
comfort  of  her  hundred  and  odd  lawyers.  Marian,  almost  i\s 
soon  as  she  was  here,  had  become  an  universal  favorite — at  least 
near  enough  so  to  authorize  the  expression  from  an  America  a. 
Still — to  be  exactly  precise,  as  Captain  Pinter  would  say — 
she  was  not  quite  an  universal  favorite  ;  she  was  not  adored 


PEACH-TEEE.  *  221 

by  that  class  of  yoimg  men  technically  known  as  swells.  This 
class  she  had  the  rare  good  feeling,  and,  perhaps,  among  wo 
men,  the  still  rarer  good  sense,  to  despise,  and  while  she  could 
not,  without  the  greatest  provocation,  say  or  do  anything  liable 
to  give  the  least  pain  to  any  one,  however  unworthy,  still 
there  was  felt  to  be  a  repellant  force  between  them.  As  for 
Alf  Walton,  who,  in  spite  of  his  known  intrigues  and  mul 
tiplied  immoralities,  was  received  with  high  favor  among  the 
belles,  who  languishingly  called  him  the  "  King  of  Hearts," 
it  is  superfluous  to  say  that  he  was  not  a  visitor  at  Mr.  Mai- 
comb's. 

"  How  is  it,"  said  Fred  Yan  Comer  to  Bramlette  one  day, 
"  that  this  little  brown  woman  who  never  sings,  never  plays, 
never  waltzes,  and  never  flirts,  and  is  not  considered  beauti 
ful  either,  is  the  most  popular  woman  in  town  ?  " 

"  Consider  her  eyes,"  said  Bramlette. 

"  Only  some  of  your  poetry,  my  dear  fellow ;  you  know 
she  is  not  considered  beautiful." 

"  But  she  does  sing  and  play  too,  sometimes — for  her  very 
intimate  friends." 

''  But  to  come  back.  What  I  said,  in  a  general  way  is 
true  ;  she  neither  sings  to  society,  nor  plays  for  society,  nor 
waltzes,  nor  flirts  with  the  American  people,  nor  is  she 
thought  to  be  beautiful  ;  but  still,  to  the  best  of  my  skill  and 
knowledge,  she  is  the  greatest  favorite  in  town.  Why  ?  " 

"  One  can  never  tell.  We  must  say,  like  the  French,  she 
has  a  charm  about  her." 

''  Well,  Bramlette,  you  are  the  honestest  man  I  know,  and, 
pace,  the  best.  Now,  if  I  had  asked  almost  anybody  but 
you,  especially  one  of  that  large  class  who  pride  themselves 
upon  *  knowing  a  thing  or  two  '  of  human  nature,  but  who  in 
fact  never  any  more  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  human  heart 
than  those  pants  get  to  the  bottom  of  your  legs,  the  answer 


222  gA  IRA. 

would  have  been  a  shrewd  wink  and  a  mysterious  whisper 
of  '  money.'  " 

"  Humph  !  That  could  never  be.  Here  is  myself,  already 
half  in  love  with  her,  and  I  never  thought  of  that,  I  know. 
I  believe  you  are  in  love  with  her  too,  and  I  reckon  you 
never  thought  of  it  till  this  moment  ;  and  there  is  Mirabeau 
Holmes,  whom  I  suspect  to  be  in  much  deeper  water  than 
either  of  us,  and  whom  all  will  allow  to  be  as  pure  of  such 
contaminating  thoughts  as  consecrated  snow.  And  as  we 
are  a  portion  of  your  American  people,  and  must  not  con 
sider  ourselves  better  than  the  rest,  there  must  be  some 
other  reason  why  the  little  brown  woman  is  so  great  a 
favorite." 

"  I  wish  the  clerks  would  not  go  there  —  at  least  so  many 
of  them,  and  so  often." 

"What  have  you  against  the  clerks?  " 

"  Oh,  '  bxisiness,'  man,  '  business  !  '  They  talk  loud,  and 
laugh  horse-laiigh.  Besides,  they  worry  her,  I  know  they  do. 
I  wish  they  were  all  in  the  Gulf.  I  tell  you  it  would  be  an 
act  of  charity  to  her  for  one  to  put  them  there." 

"  1  am  not  so  sure  that  she  would  consider  it  a  kindness  to 
her  to  put  them  all  there,  if  accounts  be  true." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  Tom  McComb." 

"  Blast  the  Scotchman  !  As  I  was  going  over  there  the 
other  night  I  passed  him,  and  I  asked  him,  with  the  broadest 
kind  of  a  twang,  4  whore  are  ye  gangging  till  ?  '  He  paid  me 
for  it,  though  ;  he  sat  me  out,  though  he  knew  I  had  an  en 
gagement.  Finally,  after  eleven,  out  of  pure  philanthropy, 
I  proposed  to  go.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  he  would  not 


"  Think  you  she  would  agree  for  him  to  be  put  into  the 
Gulf?"  .    . 


PEACH-TREE.  223 

"  May  be  not ;  b\it  that  would  be  the  greatest  kindness  of 
all." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  that  is  a  designing  man.  As  far  as  my  observa 
tion  goes,  the  avei-age  Scotchman  has  three  principles,  ex 
pressed  by  the  three  meanest  words  in  the  language — hard 
ness,  stinginess,  and  craftiness.  And  this  fellow  means  to 
gain  her  confidence  by  playing  upon  the  very  highest  feel 
ings  of  her  nature  ;  he  is  greatly  interested  about  all  religious 
matters,  goes  to  Sunday-school,  teaches  a  class,  makes  ad 
dresses,  and  tries  to  appear  as  sanctimonious  as  an  old  Cove 
nanter.  I  tell  you  what,  I  feel  like  I  do  at  a  quaker  meeting, 
whenever  he  is  in  the  room.  I  am  all  the  while  fearful  that 
he  will  break  forth  into  singing  psalms." 

"  Afraid  he  will  sing  psalms,  are  you  ?  What  an  idea  ! 
What  would  you  do,  Fred  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  Why,  I  would  listen  mournfully  till  he  got  through  ; 
and  then,  before  he    had  time  to  invite  us  all    to  unite  in 
prayer,  I  should  sing  the  doxology  and  pronounce  the  bene- ' 
diction.     Queer,  that  this  man  should  stand  foremost  among 
the  rivals  of  such  a  man  as  Mirabeau  Holmes." 

"  I  know  not  whether  he  loves  her  or  not,  but  if  he 
does,  it  will  be  with  a  fervor  not  often  seen,  I  think." 

"  What !  you,  a  poet,  say  so  much  !  I  think  you  say 
rightly,  though — '  a  fervor  not  often  seen.'  Still,  I  am  sorry 
for  Holmes ;  I  don't  think  he  stands  the  best  of  chances. 
Don't  you  think  his  religious  belief  will  be  fatal  to  him 
there  ?"" 

"  Unless  he  changes  it." 

"  Nonsense  !  As  if  a  man  could  change  his  belief.  But 
suppose  he  does  not  'change  it,'  or,  what  is  of  more  conse 
quence  to  consider,  that  it  does  not  change  itself?  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  lus  religious,  or  rather  his  no-reli- 


224  £A   IEA. 

gious,  belief,  as  indicated  in  his  letters  of  late  would  be  fatal 
to  him." 

"  You  call  a  man's  belief  '  no-religions '  because  he  denies 
the  dogmas  of  the  European  Church  ?  " 

"  No,  but  because  he  denies  the  truths  of  our  religion." 

"  Yes  ;  your  religion  !  As  if  there  were  not  many  other 
religions,  and  some,  I  think,  much  better.  But  we  will  not 
discuss  that.  I  wish  I  could  have  been  with  you  at  Hall's 
the  other  day." 

"  I  wish  you  could.  Hall  has  the  nicest,  sweetest  wife, 
and  prettiest  babies  in  the  world.  He  says  he  is  the  hap 
piest  of  men  ;  and  I  think  he  is." 

"  I  reckon  it  all  made  you  feel  sadder  than  a  bachelor- 
button  you  got  once." 

"  Far  from  it.     It  only  made  me  feel  hopeful." 

'*  By  showing  what  a  man  can  do — sometimes." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  went  home  to  dinner  with  him  some  time  ago.  I  was 
not  expected ;  and  so  I  could  get  some  idea  of  their  every 
day  life.  The  babies  were  there,  dressed  just  as  prettily  as 
if  it  had  been  done  by  Titania  and  her  fairies.  They  were 
not  sent  out  into  some  absurd  nursery,  but  kept  in  the  room 
with  the  balance  of  us.  I  took  them  in  my  arms,  rolled  them 
on  the  carpet,  and  played  with  them  generally.  I  got  my 
bellyful  of  kisses." 

"  Bellyful  of  kisses  indeed  !    Did  you  get  anything  else  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  got  ons  of  the  nicest  little  dinners  you  ever 
saw." 

"  Ah  !  That  is  what  I  was  thinking  of.  I  will  hear 
your  report." 

"  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  fear  I  can  no  more  tell  you  the 
wherefore  than  you  could  explain  the  attractiveness  of  the 
little  woman  on  Mt.  Vernon  street.  But  there  was  a  charm 


PEACH-TKEE.  225 

about  the  table.  She  is  the  only  woman  I  know  who  seems 
to  understand  the  poetry  of  the  table.  I  have  been  there 
several  times.  Let  me  see :  I  noticed  that  the  cloth,  cover 
ing  the  little  round  table  was  white  as  snow.  In  the  centre 
was  a  pretty  fruit-basket,  with  grapes,  oranges,  and  one  or 
two  other  kinds  of  fruits,  ornamented  with  leaves  and  flow 
ers  ;  and  there  was  such  a  pi-etty  little  nosegay  on  each  nap 
kin  that  one  was  almost  sorry  to  move  it.  The  butter  was 
moulded  into  shells  and  all  sorts  of  pretty  shapes,  and  placed 
in  butter-dishes  in  the  form  of  leaves,  green  leaves,  contrasting 
prettily  with  the  rich  yellow  butter  and  the  snow-white  cloth." 

"  And  the  dish  of  salad  was  ornamented  with  bright  flowers 
and  slices  of  hard-boiled  egg,  and  orange  peel,  and  the  dishes 
of  roast  and  mutton  were  trimmed  with  sprigs  of  parsley." 

"  Exactly  ;  I  never  knew  before  how  simple  a  matter  it  was 
to  make  a  table  pretty.  Is  it  not  strange  that  our  women 
know  so  little  about  the  poetry  of  the  table  ?  " 

"  One  is  not  ashamed  to  eat  at  such  a  table  as  that.  All 
the  grossness,  all  the  coarse  materialism  is  gone." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Bramlette,  I  am  beginning  to  think  like 
you,  that  Hall  has  the  nicest,  sweetest  little  wife  in  the 
world.  Unless  I  can  get  somebody  to  give  me  thirty-nine 
lashes,  I  mean  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage  as  an  act  of  penance  for 
once  thinking  ill  of  her." 

"  If  you  can  just  put  it  off  a  while,"  said  Clarence  Hall, 
entering  at  this  moment  and  hearing  only  the  latter  half  01 
the  sentence,  "  I  fear  I  shall  be  in  the  mood  to  give  you 
thirty-nine  every  morning,  if  you  like." 

«  How  so  ?  " 

"  I  shall  want  to  take  spite  out  of  something  if  I  am  beat, 
as  I  fear  I  shall  be." 

"  You   mean   for    the  office  of  city  attorney  ?      Why,  I 

ought  you  were  sure  of  it." 
10* 


226  <;A  IRA. 

"  I  thought  so  too.  But  I  find  there  will  be  strong  oppo 
sition." 

"  Is  not  Mr.  Malcomb  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  Mr.  Malcomb  is  not  the  whole  council,  or  even. 
a  majority  of  it." 

"  What  are  they  going  to  oppose  you  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  because  I  am  in  favor  of  public  schools  in  the  city 
for  negroes." 

"  Why,  the  question  is  wholly  irrelevant,  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  office  whatever." 

"  Exactly.  But  it  is  known  that  Mr.  Malcomb  is  in 
favor  of  the  schools,  and  intends  to  bring  the  matter  in  shape 
before  the  council.  It  is  also  known  that  Mr.  Malcomb 
favors  me  for  this  office  ;  and  it  was  sxipposed  that  I,  too,  ap 
proved  of  his  public  school  plan.  When  asked  about  it  I 
could  only  reply  that  I  did."  :4" 

"  Well,  well.  We  might  have  known  it.  They  would  not 
have  been  American  people  if  they  had  not  cut  some  such 
caper.  Anything  in  the  papers  about  it  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  communication  from  '  Cato.'  " 

"Give  it  me.  I  will  reply  to-morrow  to  it.  We  must 
take  a  bold  stand,  and  whip  them  out  on  that  question." 

From  the  day  on  which  we  have  seen  him  leave  the  Siin- 
dnv-school  gift,  Alf  Walton  ceased  not  his  visits  to  Mrs. 
Harlan's  cottage.  That  he  should  triumph,  he  firmly  be 
lieved.  That  it  would  not  be  easy  work,  he  knew ;  but  he 
soon  found  that  he  had  not  counted  all  the  difficulties  in 
his  way.  He  even  finally  thoxight  to  turn  respectable,  and 
use,  as  a  last  resort,  his  father's  influence.  Said  he  to  his 
father  one  day,  putting  on  an,  air  of  virtuous  philosophy — 

"  Father,  you  know  the  life  I  have  lived  ;  I  have  no  desire 
now  to  make  the  story  better  than  it  is — a  life  of  recklessness, 
extravagance,  and  debauchery.  But  it  was  not  always  so. 


PKACII-TREE.  227 

"When  I  entered  the  University  my  life  was  smooth  behind 
me,  and  all  was  fair  ahead.  But,  trust  me,  so  great  a  change 
is  riot  without  corresponding  cause.  My  life  you  know — the 
reason  of  it  you  only  know  in  part.  That  is  away  back  in 
the  past,  and  as  for  what  it  was,  no  matter — what 's  done  is 
done.  I  despised  friendship,  believed  all  women  false — 
loyal  only  to  lust  and  frippery.  And  for  a  score  of  years  I 
have  thought  I  found  it  so.  You  used  to  say  that  there  are 
periods  in  every  man's  life  when  he  may  turn  back  and  seem 
to  reverse  the  decree  of  Fate  itself.  I  am  come  to  one,  the 
first  one,  and  I  want  your  help." 

Mr.  Walton  could  not  have  been  more  amazed.  A  mother 
never  gives  up  a  child  as  lost ;  a  father  does.  Mr.  Walton 
had  this  one.  And  that  he  was  any  longer  acknowledged, 
not  to  say  supplied  with  money,  he  owed  entirely  to  his 
mother's  influence.  Mr.  Walton  said  nothing,  could  say 
nothing,  but  looked  inquiringly  into  the  face  of  the  tall, 
handsome,  bronzed  man  before  him  ;  and  really  he  thought 
he  had  never  looked  so  commanding.  The  speaker  con 
tinued  : 

"  If  I  can  win  this  girl,  whose  passionate  feeling  rises  so 
high  above  the  atmosphere  I  have  known,  into  the  upper 
regions  of  purest  love,  I  will  marry  her,  live  with  her  and 
for  her,  a^id  the  future  shall  only  be  more  bright  as  the  past 
is  dark.  But  she  is  clothed  in  such  an  armor  of  friendship, 
arid  my  character,  falsely  assumed  twenty  years  ago,  is  such, 
that  I  need  your  assistance." 

He  then  told  his  father  who  the  young  girl  was,  how  he 
had  happened  to  observe  her,  what  he  had  already  done,  and 
all  he  knew  about  Mrs.  Harlan.  His  father  must  go  to  the 
good  General  Clement,  to  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Suthei'land,  and  to 
Mrs.  Harlan  herself.  Thus  did  this  bad  man,  in  his  bad  cause, 
seek  to  enlist  the  powers  of  virtue's  self.  He  did  not  men- 


228  <?A  IRA. 

tion  Mr.  Brooke,  of  whom  he  entertained  a  profound  dis 
trust;  for  Mr.  Brooke,  as  we  have  seen,  and  as  Alf  Walton 
well  knew,  was,  notwithstanding  his  broad  and  exalted  piety, 
thoroughly  versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world.  Mr.  Walton 
believed  his  son,  and  that  evening,  when  he  told  his  wife, 
they  two,  the  old  father  and  mother,  wept  for  joy  and  hope 
as  they  had  not  in  many  a  long  year.  So  there  was  joy  in 
Mr.  Walton's  house.  The  faithful  mother's  heart  was  full ; 
God  knows  how  many  prayers,  how  many  almost  hopeless 
cries,  she  had  offered  in  anguish  at  the  throne  of  Omnipo 
tence  ;  and  now  they  were  all  answered  !  Answered  at  last ! 
Happy,  happy,  ever  happy  day !  and  she  tripped  lightly 
along  the  hall,  and  sung  in  her  heart  for  joy,  as  in  the  long- 
ago  days  of  hope  and  promise. 

But  a  great  sorrow  was  just  ahead.  And  I  know  there 
are  many  who  will  consider  this  strengthening  hope,  coming 
iust  at  the  time  it  did,  as  specially  sent  by  a  benevolent 
Providence  to  sustain  these  two  in  the  great  affliction  which 
was  soon  to  overtake  them.  It  was  but  a  short  while  after 
the  events  just  narrated,  that  the  Waltons  were  all  seated 
at  a  rather  early  breakfast,  for  Mr.  Walton  was  going  to 
leave  that  morning  for  a  distant  city.  Strange  enough,  they 
had  just  been  looking  through  the  columns  of  a  New  York 
paper,  where  they  found,  in  an  article  on  the  "  Commune,"  a 
list  of  the  names  of  all  the  prominent  foreigners  killed,  and 
a  statement  that  not  a  single  American  had  been  killed,  and 
only  one  or  two  engaged  in  the  war.  This,  though  they 
could  not  tell  why,  nevertheless  afforded  relief  from  some 
vague  fears  which,  somehow,  they  seemed  to  inhale  with  the 
very  atmosphere.  They  had  not  heard  from  George  in  some 
time,  and  they  had  just  been  speaking  of  him  uneasily.  M  r. 
Walton  was  just  saying  that  he  knew  they  would  get  a  letter 
before  he  should  return,  and  they  must  telegraph  him  at 


PEACH-TREE.  229 

once ;  when  the  carrier  entered  with  a  message  from  the  tele 
graph  office. 

"  From  the  American  Minister  at  Paris,"  Mr.  Walton 
read  aloud.  Every  one  turned  pale,  the  air  seemed  to  leave 
the  room,  and  there  was  an  ominous  stillness.  The  son  took 
the  package  from  his  father's  hand,  and  read,  He  only  said, 
"  George  is  dead."  Mr.  Walton's  head  fell  forward  upon 
the  table,  and  he  uttered  a  deep  groan  ;  Mrs.  Walton  was 
borne  to  her  room  by  the  servants  and  her  son. 

The  noble  women  of  Paris,  whose  sons  had  been  faithful 
to  liberty,  were  also  faithful  to  their  promises.  These  two 
had  also  lost  sons :  one,  a  mere  boy,  had  died  like  a  hero  at 
the  barricade ;  and  the  other,  a  tall,  fair-haired  youth,  had 
died  ringing  the  defiant  shout  of  Vive  la  Commune  !  in  the 
very  muzzles  of  his  assassins'  guns.  And  all  three  had  been 
laid  away  together.  And  here  the  body  of  young  George 
Walton  should  rest  until  his  father  should  come  to  bear  it 
away  to  its  native  soil  in  the  West.  And  shall  his  grave  be 
less  sacred  here  'f  Verily,  no  !  I  think  the  clods  are  sacred 
here.  Every  one  mingles  with  the  dust  of  a  hero.  The 
American  Minister,  according  to  the  genius  of  his  people, 
when  the  women  carried  him  the  letter  left  with  them,  did 
not  wait  the  uncertainty  and  slowness  of  the  mail,  but  sent 
the  contents  of  the  whole  letter,  with  a  word  of  condolence 
from  himself,  by  cable.  « 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day  that  Mr.  Walton  read  the 
message.  Meanwhile  his  son  had  already  sent  what  message 
was  necessary  in  reply  to  the  Minister. 

The  next  evening  but  one,  Alf  Walton  was  at  Mrs.  Har- 
lan's.  They  were  sitting  in  the  west  window  of  the  little 
parlor,  when  he  said  to  Emma — 

"  This  gentle  wind  brings  us  the  sweet  scents  from  your 
little  garden ;  they  come  as  if  to  woo  us  thither.  Let  us  go ; 


lor  I  am  going  off  to-morrow  on  a  long  journey,  and  should 
like  to  see  it  to-night ;  and  you  must  give  me  a  flower, 
which  I  will  carry  with  me  all  the  way." 

''  Oh,  I  see  !     It  requires  something  to  remember  me." 

"  Come  into  the  moonlight,  and  I  will  show  you  how  far 
you  are  mistaken."  The  moon  shone  beautifully,  and  when 
they  reached  the  little  flower-garden,  he  said  to  her : 

"  Could  you  think  I  wanted  a  flower  only  to  remember 
you  by  ?  See  here  what  I  have  !  "  And  he  drew  carefully 
from  his  breast-pocket  a  small  case,  and  taking  out  a  tiny 
picture,  held  it  so  the  light  would  shine  upon  it.  It  was  a 
picture  of  herself. 

"  Did  you  think  I  wanted  a  flower  for  that  ?  " 

"  What  betters  it  that  that  should  stand  instead  of  the 
flower  2  " 

"  This,  my  timid  beauty,  is  only  to  feast  my  eyes,  that 
else  would  sicken  from  want  of  light  from  what  they  love ; 
my  heart,  my  soul,  your  own  self  doth  fill.  Will  you  not 
give  me  the  flower  too  ?  " 

"  Where  go  you  to-morrow?  " 

"  To  France ;  we  have  just  received  a  telegram — my 
brother  is  dead — and  I  go  to  bring  home  his  remains." 

"  Youy  brother  George  ?  I  am  so  sorry.  My  brothers  all 
died  in  the  war.  I  am  so  sorry  for  your  mother ;  but  you 
are  left  to  her.  Poor,  poor  mother,  no  one  was  left  to  her." 

"  My  precious  darling !  let  me  be  a  son  to  her  and  a  pro 
tector  to  you.  I  must,  I  must  declare  to  you  what  I  have 
delayed  so  long.  Light  of  my  life  !  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
long,  how  patiently,  how  singly  I  have  loved  you;  for  love 
cannot  be  measured  by  years  #nd  months,  but  by  longings, 
by  dreamings,  by  hopes  and  fears.  But  I  have  a  confession 
to  make,  and  I  make  it  before  my  most  sacred  shrine — • 
your  own  heart.  I  nould  not  offer  you  a  heai*t,  a  life,  that 


PEACH-TKEE.  231 

•was  unworthy  of  you.  But  sorrow  is  a  great  purifier,  and 
love  is  a  great  elevator.  I  have  known  both  ;  and  to-night 
I  declare  to  you,  that  now  for  the  first  time  I  know  that 
-•with  your  confidence  and  love  I  could  be  worthy  even  of 
you.  I,  of  my  mother's  children,  am  left  alone,  you  of 
yours  ;  united,  we  two  shall  lighten  their  hearts  and  comfort 
them.  And  for  ourselves,  let  the  star  that  so  kindly  heralds 
the  roseate  morn  stand  surety  for  a  happy  day."  He  looked 
earnestly,  searchingly,  into  her  face ;  it  was  covered  with  a 
blush,  and,  well  as  he  knew  the  workings  of  the  heart,  he 
mistook  the  import  of  that  blush.  Still  the  poor  girl  was 
standing  upon  exceedingly  treacherous  and  dangerous  ground. 
For  she  was  reflecting  at  that  moment  that  maybe,  after  all, 
this  man  before  her  was  in  earnest,  maybe  he  spoke  the 
truth,  maybe  he  was  an  injured  man  ;  and  she  blushed  that 
probably  in  her  own  heart  she  had  been  unjust  to  this  man ; 
not  only  unjust  to  a  fellow-being,  but  to  a  man  who  most  of 
all  stood  in  need  of  simple  justice,  and,  above  everything 
else,  the  man  who  was  at  that  very  moment  elevating  and 
dignifying  her  with  his  confidence,  and  laying  at  her  feet  his 
love  and  life.  He  saw  not  the  meaning  of  this  blush ;  he 
took  it  for  the  glow  of  love.  He  seized  her  hand : 

"  Only  one  word,  one  hope — or  better," — and  he  quickly 
folded  her  in  his  arms.  This  time  it  was  the  blush  of 
offended  innocence  ;  sh'e  drew  back  from  him,  and  said,  in  a 
tone  that  showed  she  was  offended — 

"  Mr.  Walton,  I  did  not  come  here  for  this ;  I  must  not 
listen  to  it ; "  and  then  again,  fearing  she  was  unkind,  she 
added  in  a  kinder  tone,  "  Mamma  is  alone ;  ought  not  we 
to  return  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  give  me  one  hope,  one  promise.  Say  that  you 
will  think  of  me,  dream  of  me,  sing  of  me ;  that  my  image 
shall  be  constantly  in  your  heart,  my  name  ever  on  your 


232  gA  IRA. 

lips ;  that  you  will  be  wholly  mine,  as  I  am  yours.  Oh,  I 
will  turn  fire-worshipper !  and  daily,  long  before  the  western, 
lark  shall  herald  the  morn,  will  I  greet  the  rising  sun  with  a 
prayer  for  you,  and  as  he  sinks  to  rest  I  will  ask  his  parting 
blessing  upon  all  you  love.  And  in  that  sweet  hour  when  you 
close  your  eyes  to  s^eep,  and  the  winged  spirits  are  there  to 
bear  heavenward  thy  latest  prayer,  wilt  thou  not  then  utter 
my  name  ?  and  then  with  sweet  good-night  kiss  the  sacred  air 
that  presses  upon  thy  lips,  and  the  cords  of  electric  love  will 
bear  it  to  me  in  the  east !  "  Thus  it  was  that  this  scamp 
proposed  to  kiss  by  telegraph  !  They  had  now  reached  the 
steps,  and  he  at  once  bade  her  good-night,  without  giving 
her  time  to  speak,  choosing  rather  to  leave  the  impression 
with  her  that  he  believed  from  her  silence  she  had  promised 
him  everything.  Moreover,  he  had  already  decided  upon  a 
last,  desperate  game ;  he  would  not  leave  the  city  to-morrow, 
but  put  it  off  till  the  next  day.  In  the  meantime  this  des 
perate  game  was  to  be  played. 

The  next  afternoon  from  the  events  just  narrated,  Emma 
was  at  Mr.  Brooke's.  They  were  in  the  parlor — Emma,  Mr. 
Brooke,  and  his  daughter  Claude,  a  beautiful  and  accom 
plished  young  lady,  about  one  year  Emma's  senior.  MTS. 
Brooke  was  a  beautiful,  highly  cultured  woman,  but  of  ex 
ceedingly  delicate  constitution.  She  had  now  for  several 
years  been  a  confirmed  invalid  ;  she  never  left  her  room,  and 
indeed  was  understood  to  be  sinking  under  a  sure  but  quiet 
disease.  Mr.  Brooke  had  only  two  children — Claude  and  a 
younger  sister.  Emma  never  knew  where  she  had  rather 
be — at  Mr.  Brooke's,  General  Clement's,  or  Mrs.  Suther 
land's.  Mr.  Brooke  was  as  accomplished  a  man  as  one  might 
ever  meet,  at  least  prima  facie.  Upon  entering  the  parlor 
you  saw  that  every  niche  and  corner  was  occupied  by  some 
beautiful  little  statuette ;  the  walls  were  covered  with  tK» 


PEACH-TREE.  233 

cartoons  of  Raffaelle,  and  pictures  from  other  great  painters ; 
and  on  the  tables  were  several  volumes  of  the  great  poets, 
Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Dante,  Tasso,  the  French  and  ancient 
dramatists,  all  in  their  original  languages.  Mr.  Brooke 
was  a  most  excellent  reader,  and  he  often  read  fine  passages 
from  the  poets  to  the  girls.  Mr.  Brooke  had  just  been  say 
ing  that  he  never  went  to  theatres  except  to  hear  a  great 
singer. 

"  No,"  said  Claude,  "  I  thought  I  should  like  to  go  to  see 
Forrest  in  Hamlet  at  least  once  while  he  was  here  ;  but  father 
said  he  would  not  go." 

"  Above  ail  things  I  would  not  see  a  great  tragedy  acted. 
I  cannot  imagine  anything  more  absurd.  The  high  intellec 
tual  enjoyment  that  you  get  from  reading  it  nvust  give  way 
to  emotions  almost  entirely  animal — a  thing  of  the  nerves  and 
flesh  and  blood.  It  is  essentially  degrading.  In  a  word,  it 
substitutes  for  intellectual  feeling  animal  feeling,  for  the  ideal, 
the  gross  material.  Comedy  may  be  acted  to  make  people 
laugh — that  I  do  not  object  to  ;  tragedy  never  !  I  know  the 
opinions  on  this  question  of  the  Chancellor  of  the  University, 
who  is  the  best  authority  in  such  matters  I  know,  and  I 
agree  with  him  exactly.  But  we  were  speaking  of  Hamlet ; 
let  me  read  you  some  passages.  I  read  you  that  passage  in 
which  Polonius  gives  some  precepts  to  his  son,  about  to  leave 
for  France."  Mr.  Brooke  read  the  speech  of  Polonius,  ending 
with  the  ever-great  words — 

''  This  above  all :  to  thine  own  self  be  true  ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man." 

"  Come  now,  for  a  criticism !     What  say  you,  Emma,  to 
lis  passage  ?  " 


234  CA  IRA. 

"  I  think  he  ought  to  be  a  very  wise  and  good  man  who 
spoke  this  last  precept — such  a  man  as  Brutus,  or  Washing 
ton,  or  Lee.  But  is  this  not  a  great  deal  better  than  what 
goes  before  it  ?  " 

"  What  say  you,  Claude  ?  " 

"  That  the  last  three  lines  are  so  much  better  than  tho.se 
above,  that  they  never  could  have  been  spoken  by  the  same 
person." 

"  Right,  both  of  you.  Polonius  is  a  garrulous,  shallow- 
pated  old  man,  and  these  three  lines  ought  never  to  have 
been  put  into  his  mouth  at  all.  As  you  say,  Emma,  they 
would  do  for  Brutus,  or  Washington,  or  Lee,  but  not  Po 
lonius.  The  idea  of  putting  such  words  into  the  mouth  of 
a  man  who  has  just  been  advising  his  son  to  wear  the  finest 
clothes  he  can  buy  !  The  fact  is,  the  poet  seems  to  get  impa 
tient  with  the  old  man,  and  lest  the  son  be  ruined  for  the 
want  of  wholesome  precepts,  himself  steps  in  and  arms  him 
with  this  one.  But  now  I  will  read  you  what  Laertes  says 
to  his  sister,  poor  Ophelia,  concerning  Hamlet,  '  and  the  tri 
fling  of  his  favor.'  "  And  Mr.  Brooke  read  the  passage  end 
ing  with  these  lines : 


"  Then  weigh  what  loss  your  honor  may  sustain, 
If  with  too  credent  ear  you  list  his  songs, 
Or  Idse  your  heart ;  or  your  chaste  treasure  open 
To  his  unmaster'd  importunity. 
Fear  it,  Ophelia,  fear  it,  my  dear  sister  ; 
And  keep  you  in  the  rear  of  your  affection, 
'  Out  of  the  shot  and  danger  of  desire. 
The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 
If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon  : 
Virtue  itself  'scapes  not  calumnious  strokes : 
The  canker  galls  the  infants  of  the  spring, 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclos'd ; 


PEACH-TREE.  235 

And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent. 
Be  wary,  then  ;  best  safety  lies  in  fear ; 
Youth  to  itself  rebels,  though  none  else  near." 


And  Mr.  Brooke  proceeded  to  speak,  like  a  wise  and  pious 
father  and  friend,  upon  the  subject  of  these  lines  ;  for  of  one 
of  these  girls  before  him  he  was  father,  of  the  other,  beloved 
pastor  and  friend.  Was  it  Providence,  dear  reader,  or  Fate, 
that  of  all  the  splendid  passages  in  Shakespeare,  Mr.  Brooke 
selected  this  particular  one,  on  this  particular  afternoon,  and 
ispoke  upon  it  so  wisely,  so  warningly,  and  so  feelingly  ? 
Heaven  knows  one  of  them  stood  at  that  moment  in  great 
enough  need  of  some  such  warning  as  this.  Special  Provi 
dence,  or  inevitable  Fate  ?  One  would  like  to  believe  the 
former  ?  Say  you  so  ?  Allans  !  Special  providence  let  it  be, 
then. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Miss  Brooke  went  part  of  the  way 
home  with  Emma.  Something  was  said  about  young  George 
Walton,  who  had  been  much  loved  by  Mr.  Brooke,  and  of 
whose  death  they  had  just  heard  that  morning ;  and  then 
Claude  told  something  of  what  her  father — whom  she  almost 
worshipped — had  said  about  how  mysterious  it  appeared  that 
both  of  Mr.  Walton's  younger  sons,  high-minded,  generous, 
and  likely  to  be  useful  men,  should  die,  leaving  only  Mr.  Alf 
— a  gambler,  a  debauchee,  and  a  bold,  bad,  unscrupulous  man. 
And  then  Miss  Brooke  said  something  about  a  daughter  of 
Mr.  Walton's,  beautiful  as  a  star,  of  whom  it  was  whispered 
she  had  been  led  to  disgrace  and  ruin  by  a  young  Italian, 
many  years  ago.  She  was  thought  to  be  dead ;  but  it  was 
not  known  certainly.  At  any  rate,  she  had  sunk  out  of  sight. 

When  Emma  got  home  she  found  a  beautiful  bouquet  and 
note  from  Mr.  Alf  Walton,  saying  that  he  had  postponed  his 


236  <}A   ERA. 

departure  until  to-morrow,  that  he  might  see  her  again  this 
evening.  Meanwhile  that  accomplished  gentleman  was  busily 
arranging  his  plans. 

"  You  will  be  there  promptly,"  said  he  to  a  long,  lean, 
hungry-looking  individual,  with  whom  he  had  been  closeted 
for  an  hour.  "  We  will  drive  as  if  to  the  theatre ;  we  will 
alight  at  the  front  door,  and  come  straight  in ;  we  will  not 
sit  down  ;  you  must  perform  the  ceremony  promptly  ;  if  you 
get  out,  don't  stop,  say  anything ;  she  will  not  know  the  dif 
ference.  You  understand  now.  She  will  think  it  simply  a 
secret  marriage.  Be  on  your  guard.  Meet  me  at  the  depot 
to-morrow  at  nine.  I  will  not  be  baffled.  I  will  succeed  at 
all  costs." 

"  Have  you  tried  all  other  plans  but  this  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  And  failed  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  a  new  deal  in  your  fortune,  far  as  I  know." 

"  Yes  ;  it's  new  as  far  as  I  know  or  as  far  as  anybody  else 
knows,  I  reckon.  All  on  account  of  that  dainn'd  eagle-eyed 
villain  of  a  parson." 

"  Suppose  you  fail  to-night  ?  " 

"  I'll  not  fail.    But  if  I  do,  I  will  come  by  and  let  you  know." 

The  false  justice  went  his  way.  Early  in  the  night  Mr. 
Walton's  splendid  phaeton  stopped  in  front  of  Mrs.  Harlan's 
cottage.  Mr.  Alf  was  hi  it.  Emma  met  him  herself.  He 
was  quick  to  detect  a  decided  change  in  her,  he  thought,  since 
last  night.  But  he  was  confident  in  his  art  of  persuasion. 
He  contrived  dexterously  to  recall  the  whole  of  their  conver 
sation  of  the  night  before,  hoping  to  place  her  in  the  same 
state  of  uncertainty  she  then  was,  and  then  to  overpower  her 
with  the  rushing  madness  of  his  devotion  and  ardor  by  pro 
posing  that  they  be  married  within  an  hour.  He  brought 


PEACH-TKEE.  237 

into  play  ever  power  and  every  art  he  was  master  of;  pro 
ceeding  all  along  on  the  supposed  understanding  that  her 
silence  of  the  previous  night  was  mutually  understood  to 
mean  consent.  He  appealed  to  her  love  of  adventure  even, 
and  endeavored  to  arouse  her  ambition  by  the  grandest 
prospects  and  most  eloquent  and  burning  promises.  And 
then  he  appealed  to  her  thus  : 

"  My  father  and  mother  are  both  old,  weighed  down  with 
grief;  how  it  would  fill  them  with  joy  for  you  to  come  to 
them  like  sunshine  in  the  midst  of  their  night !  Besides, 
they  cannot  live  long  ;  my  father  has  vast  wealth,  and  no  one 
to  give  it  to ;  as  for  me,  I  want  it  not ;  I  want  nothing 
without  you.  And  I  might  die  myself,  even  on  this  very 
voyage  ;  think  what  a  consolation  then  it  would  be  to  them 
that  our  union  had  not  been  put  off  till  my  return.  And 
what  a  consolation  it  would  be  to  me  in  such  an  event — 
to  know  that  she  whom  I  loved  best  of  all  the  earth  was 
securely  raised  above  the  possibility  of  want,  above  the  chan 
ges  of  treacherous  fortune,  the  death  of  relatives,  the  loss  of 
friends.  Think,  on  the  other  hand — Good  God  !  I  cannot 
think  of  it.  Consider  your  mother.  Would  it  be  worth 
nothing  to  see  her  raised  above  the  possibility  of  dependence1; 
to  surround  her  with  every  comfort,  every  luxury  ;  to  make 
the  balance  of  her  life  smooth  and  happy,  and,  above  all,  to 
let  her  know  that  her  child  was  safe  in  the  arms  of  a  hus 
band  who  would  protect  and  honor  her,  and  lavish  upon  her 
all  the  wealth  of  his  love  ?  Come,  my  precious  !  My  arms 
and  my  heart  are  open  and  longing  for  thee.  Your  mother 
knows  me  not ;  therefore  she  gives  not  her  consent.  But 
when  I  return,  and  we  relate  to  her  this  last  test  of  devotion, 
Ixo w  happy  she  will  be,  and  how  she  will  applaud  the  heavenly 
impulses  of  her  child.  Come  !  The  constant  stars  look  kindly 
down,  and  long  to  bless  us  !  " 


238  <A   IRA. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  Three  men  are  beloved  by  God  :  he  who  is  of  a  sweet  temper ;  he  who  is  moderate 
in  his  habits ;   and  he  who  does  not  always  obstinately  adhere  to  his  first  resolves." 

TALMUD. 

ONE  morning,  in  the  latter  part  of  June,  Marian  Malcomb 
was  surprised  to  receive  the  following  note  : 

"  Miss  MARIAN  : 

"  I  have  just  returned  to  the  city.     May  I  call  this  morn 
ing  ?     Truly  and  faithfully, 

"  MIRABEAU  HOLMES." 

To  which  she  immediately  sent  the  following  answer  : 

"  MR.  HOLMES  : 

"  I  will  wait  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that  you  have 
returned.     Come  at  twelve. 

"Your  friend, 

"  MARIAN  MALCOMB." 

Mirabeau  had  expected  his  return  to  be  a  complete  sur 
prise,  even  to  his  intimate  friends,  such  as  Van  Comer,  Bram- 
lette,  and  Hall.  But  the  surprise  was  with  himself  when  he 
found  them  all  awaiting  him  at  the  car-shed.  Fred  was  gaily 
decorated  with  a  red  scarf— the  badge  of  the  Comnrane.  He 
rushed  to  Mirabeau,  gave  him  the  fraternal  embrace,  and  then 
turned  on  his  heel,  throwing  his  head  back  with  the  abandon 
of  a  gamin,  and  sang  out  jauntily,  "Ah!  £a  ira,  c,a  ir;i, 
9a  ira."  Then  he  cried,  "  Vive  la  Commune  !  "  and  the  friends, 
with  several  others  in  the  crowd  repeated  it.  Meanwhile,  a 


PEACH-TREE.  2CO 

considerable  crowd  had  gathered  around  them  ;  but  as  the 
meaning  of  the  demonstration  was  known  only  to  some  half 
a  dozen  friends,  and  as  the  object  of  it  was  personally  un 
known  to  the  crowd,  they  might  still  have  escaped ;  and  this 
Miraboau  wished  to  do — not  that  he  objected  to  standing 
upon  the  head  of  a  barrel  and  addressing  a  crowd  for  five  or 
ten  minutes — what  American  ever  did  ?  but  because  he  was 
worn  out  with  travel,  covered  with  dust,  and  his  arm  was 
paining  him.  But  this  was  exactly  what  his  friends  deter 
mined  he  should  not  do. 

No  one  who  has  not  witnessed  it  can  have  any  idea  of  the 
marvellous  rapidity  with  which  a  crowd  gathers  in  any  Ameri 
can,  city,  even  when  no  one  seems  to  know  the  exact  object 
of  the  gathering ;  there  is  no  parallel  save  Paris.  The  reason 
of  it  is  the  quick  perception  and  the  lively  and  exciting 
sympathy  of  the  people.  The  throng  threw  itself  across  the 
sidewalk  ;  a  whisper  had  rapidly  run  through  the  crowd  of 
what  was  up  ;  and  so,  when  Fred  called  out,  "  Holmes  !  " 
the  crowd,  according  to  the  custom,  immediately  on  all  sides 
raised  the  cry,  "  Holmes  !  Holmes  !  Holmes  !  "  This  is 
eminently  a  speechifying  people  ;  always — more  the  pity — 
they  have  been  wholly  swayed  by  their  orators.  Plainly 
there  was  but  one  escape.  In  the  hurry  and  excitement 
Fred  had  dexterously  transferred  his  red  scarf  to  Mirabeau, 
unknown  to  him,  and  so,  when  he  stepped  upon  the  platform 
of  a  car  standing  by,  he  was  really  a  Communist  chief,  with 
the  insignia  of  his  office.  Mirabeau  forgot  his  pain,  and  he 
f.ilt  for  a  moment  a  thrill  somewhat  like  he  was  wont  to  feel 
among  the  crowds  that  used  to  assemble  in  St.  Antoine.  In 
a  deep  voice,  full  of  emotion,  Mirabeau  said  : 

"  Citizens  !  I  have  fought  two  months  in  Paris  for  what 
many  in  this  crowd  fought  four  years  in  Virginia  and  the 
West.  Here,  our  heroes  were  killed  and  our  chief  impris- 


240  gA  IRA. 

oned ;  there,  chiefs  and  heroes  died  behind  the  barricade, 
or  were  brutally  murdered  by  monster  assassins.  Let  this 
forever  be  a  custom  around  the  camp-fires  of  Humanity's 
army:  when  the  sentinels  have  all  answered,  '  One  o'clock, 
and  all  is  well,'  and  the  corporal  calls  out, '  They  all  answer,' 
let  the  captain  ask,  '  Do  the  men  of  the  Commune  answer  ?  ' 
Citizens,  heroes  will  grasp  their  swords  in  their  graves  when 
the  solemn  answer  is  given,  '  No  ;  they  all  died  in  the  cause 
of  Humanity  ! '  Long  live  the  Universal  Republic !  " 

There  is  probably  no  people  in  the  world  so  like  the  people 
of  Paris  in  its  impulses  and  sympathies  as  the  people  of  the 
South.  The  fact  is — and  it  has  not  been  sufficiently  ob 
served — our  people  are  much  more  French  than  English. 
Mirabeau,  in  these  few  words,  from  the  associations  in  his 
mind  at  the  moment,  naturally  and  impulsively  adopted 
the  same  style  that  he  would  have  used  in  speaking  to  a 
crowd  of  proletaires  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine,  and  with 
the  happiest  effect.  A  few  in  the  crowd  cried,  tl  Vive  la 
Commune !  "  while  thfe  mass,  knowing  nothing  of  French, 
shouted,  "  Hurrah  for  the  Commune!  Long  live  the  JRepub- 
lic  /"  When  they  reached  the  hotel,  Fred  seized  the  pen  and 
wrote  on  the  register,  after  Mirabeau's  name,  "  Commune  of 
Paris."  Mirabeau  objected  to  this,  saying  that  he  did  not 
want  anything  said  about  his  return,  and  about  his  being  a 
Communist,  as  it  might  appear  that  he  wanted  to  give  him 
self  an  air  of  importance,  etc. ;  whereupon  Brainlette  handed 
him  one  of  the  morning  papers,  pointing  him  to  the  following  : 
"  Mirabeau  Holmes,  of  this  State,  a  member  of  the  Commune 
of  Paris,  is  expected  to  reach  the  city  this  morning,  on  th>3 
Augusta  train,"  etc.,  etc.  After  he  got  to  his  room  he  found 
out  the  secret  of  the  whole  matter.  In  Liverpool  he  had 
met  with  General  Cluseret,  who  had  made  his  escape  from 
Pai'is  in  the  last  days  of  the  struggle,  and  they  returned  to 


PEACH-TREE.  241 

this  country  together.  Cluseret,  although  claiming  to  be  a 
naturalized  American,  was  really  a  Frenchman.  Mirabeau 
was  the  only  native  American  who  held  an  office  under  the 
government  of  the  Commune  ;  and  Cluseret  judged  that  any 
honors  or  distinction  shown,  him  would  be  considered  as 
shown  the  representative  of  America  in  the  Commune,  and 
would  be  taken  as  so  much  respect  shown  by  his  people  to 
the  cause  he  had  served.  Knowing  some  of  Mirabeau's 
friends,  from  having  heard  him  speak  of  them,  he  secretly 
telegraphed  them  as  to  the  time  of  his  expected  arrival. 
Cluseret  himself  travelled  under  an  assumed  name,  wishing 
to  remain  for  some  time  unknown  in  this  country.  Mira 
beau's  three  friends  did  not  tell  Marian  Mulcomb,  or  indeed 
any  one  else,  of  his  expected  return  to  the  city,  rightly 
thinking  that  as  she  could  not  fail  to  be  present  in  his 
thoughts,  so,  if  he  wished  it,  he  would  inform  her  himself. 
Of  course,  however,  she,  and  everybody  else — for  all  the 
people  of  this  city,  to  their  honor  and  to  the  honor  of  the 
city  be  it  said,  both  can  and  do  read — would  see  the  notice 
in  the  morning  papers.  But  it  so  happened — just  as  every 
thing  in  the  universe  happens — that  Marian  had  not  seen  the 
papers  that  morning.  This  was  the  way  of  it :  Mr.  Malcomb 
lived  on  Mt.  Vernon  street,  about  a  mile  from  the  post- 
office,  near  which  was  also  his  business  office.  He  always 
drove  down  in  his  carriage  very  early  in  the  morning,  and, 
partly  to  enjoy  the  morning  air  and  partly  to  see  what  was 
doing  in  the  city,  his  daughter  generally  accompanied  him. 
They  would  go  to  the  post-office,  from  there  to  Mr.  Malcomb's 
office,  and,  leaving  him  there,  return  home  by  a  different 
route.  This  morning  Mr.  Malcomb's  brother  had  her  seat, 
and  so  Marian  had  riot  taken  the  grand  round,  and  had  not 
yet  seen  the  morning  papers.  Mr.  Malcomb  himself  was  at 

that   moment  jerking  himself  along  Wall  street,  erect   and 
11 


242  gA  IRA. 

stiff,  as  if  bound  to  a  board  running  Tip  and  down  his  back, 
wearing  the  highest  beaver-hat  ever  known  in  this  State, 
which  he  carried  on  top  of  his  head,  slightly  pitched  forward, 
with  the  same  precision  as  you  have  seen  a  darkey  carry  a 
pail  of  water. 

Mirabeau  found  Marian  out  in  the  yard  among  the  flowers. 
She  gave  him  a  tiny  rose  as  they  walked  towards  the  house, 
which  he  placed  in  his  button-hole,  saying  "  he  would  wear 
it  in  place  of  his  red  badge." 

"  Will  it  live  so  long  ?  " 

"  As  long,  I  hope,  as  the  memory  of  the  other.  You  can 
make  it  immortal."  . 

He  found  her  the  same  quiet,  little,  brown  woman,  with  a 
charm  somehow. 

"  You  must  tell  me  now,"  said  she,  "  how  you  escaped. 
We  saw  something  of  it  in  a  New  York  paper,  but  it  was 
too  meagre.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Ah,  then,  must  I  say  so  much  about  myself?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  your  friends  wish  it.  Come,  I  will  sing  you 
one  verse  of  a  song  first."  And  she  sang  in  a  low,  sweet  voice 
the  last  stanza  of  that  wonderful  song,  C'EST  NOTRE  TOUR." 

"  Au  Retour. 
"  Chants  du  pays,  a  notre  ame  ravie, 

Vous  apportez  les  accents  du  bonheur. 
Pays,  sois  fier  !  tu  nous  donnas  la  vie, 

Nous  la  dormions  pour  garder  ton  honneur. 
Coteaux  charmants,  rive  connue, 

Nous  revoyons  vos  bords  cheris  : 
Souhaitez  nous  la  bienvenue, 

Chants  du  pays,  chants  du  pays." 

Then  Mirabeau  related  to  her,  briefly,  how,  with  the  help 
of  the  American  Minister,  he  had  escaped  from  Satory. 


PEACH-TREE.  243 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  "you  must  tell  me  what  you  all  have 
been  doing  here." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  know  everything  o'f  importance  that 
has  happened ;  about  politics,  and  all  that.  Some  of  our 
friends  are  married.  I  waited  on  three  couples  last  winter. 
None  of  our  friends,  I  am  glad  to  say,  have  died.  Mrs.  Suth 
erland  has  written  a  novel,  and  made  herself  famous ;  my 
Sunday-school  class  has  been  going  on  bravely,  and  we  have 
the  nicest  club  you  ever  saw.  And  to-morrow  night  is  club 
night;  you  must  join  ;  all  our  friends  belong  to  it." 

"  To-morrow  night — where  ?  And  tell  me  how  I  must  get 
there." 

"  At  Mrs.  Hall's— Clarence  Hall's  !  Why,  that  will  be 
nice.  You  see,  we  have  an  equal  number  of  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen.  After  each  meeting  the  secretary  keeps  a  list  of  the 
ladies'  names,  and  each  gentleman  writes  his  name  opposite 
that  of  the  lady  he  is  going  with." 

"  Then  I  must  go  alone  to-morrow  night,  evidently." 

"  No,  you  can  go  with  me.  I  say  this  much  because  I  am 
president  for  the  next  meeting.  Mr.  McComb  was  going 
with  me,  but  he  had  to  leave  the  city  to-day." 

"  Are  you  not  afraid  to  tell  me  so  much  ?  " 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  turning  my  head — making  me  believe  I  am  a  favorite 
of  the  gods." 

''  No  compliments.     Have  you  seen  any  of  your  friends  ?  " 

"  One — yourself.  Several  of  them  did  meet  me  at  the  car- 
shed." 

"  Did  they  know  you  were  coming  ?  " 

"  It  seems  they  did,  but  not  from  me.  But  tell  me  how 
you  have  been." 

"  Oh,  as  usual.  My  life,  of  course,  must  be  without  inci 
dent.  I  ride  over  to  town  with  father  every  morning,  early  ; 


244  £A   IRA. 

read  the  papers,  and  sometimes  read  some  in  bo^ks  ;  help 
mother  with  whatever  work  she  has  ;  dig  among  the  flower*-, 
and  make  a  great  many  bouquets — you  see  I  have  not  learned 
yet  that  plants  have  feeling ;  and  generally  have  callers  in 
the  evening.  I  go  to  the  club  once  a  week,  and  once  or 
twice  we  have  been  on  an  excursion  to  Stone  Mountain ;  one 
time  Mrs.  Sutherland  went  with  us.  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  have  long  wanted  to,  and  now  I  must  not  put 
off  seeking  her  acquaintance." 

"  You  must  read  her  book  first,  though." 

"  Have  you  read  it  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Tell  me  something  about  it." 

"  The  critics  are  all  down  on  it,  all  but  Mr.  Stephens. 
They  say  it  is  immoral  in  its  teachings,  and  it  has  got  a  great 
deal  of  kissing  in  it." 

"  What  does  Mr.  Stephens  say  ?  "" 

"  He  says  that  it  is  not  immoral,  and  that  it  gives  evi 
dences  of  power  of  a  high  order,  especially  dramatic  power." 

"  I  fear  you  will  agree  with  Mr.  Stephens,  out  of  sympa 
thy,  because  all  the  others  are  against  the  author." 

"  No  ;  I  think  Mr.  Stephens  is  right,  though.  But  there  is 
most  too  much  kissing." 

"  And  hugging  too  ?  " 

"  You  have  read  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  coming  home,  T  found  a  copy  in  Washington." 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  do.  Three  things  struck  me  particularly :  the 
wonderful  dramatic  power,  or  rather,  as  Mr.  Stephens  says,  the 
evidences  of  wonderful  dramatic  power ;  the  high  morality 
of  the  book — too  high,  I  know,  for  most  critics,  because  most 
critics  are  narrow,  ignorant,  bigoted,  superstitious,  dogmatic, 
conservative ;  but  what  I  like  best  about  this  book  with  such 


PEACH-TREE.  245 

a  detestable  name—"  Love-sick"  indeed  ! — is  its  manifestly 
strong  tendency  towards  liberalism.  I  believe  it  is  the  only 
instance  1  know  of  in  our  Southern  literature  of  anything 
that  looks  like  a  revolt  against  a  miserable  '  conservatism.' " 

"  '  Ignorant,  bigoted,  superstitious,  dogmatic  ! '  What  fear 
ful  adjectives.  But  I  have  not  heard  you  speak  so  of  '  con 
servatism  '  before." 

"  No,  I  have  only  learned  anything  of  its  true  import 
since  I  saw  you,  and  knowing  that,  I  hate  it  with  all  my 
might.  It  is  the  enemy  of  Humanity." 

"  But  we  are  told  to  love  our  enemies." 

tl  Well,  if  it  must  be  so,  my  love  for  *  conservatism'  is 
boundless ;"  I  wish  the  word,  the  idea,  and  all  who  believe  in 
sither,  in  a  better  world  than  this  !  " 

"  Well,  well,  '  times  change,  and  men  change  with  them  !  ' ' 

"  But  '  principles  never  ?  '  I  know  of  no  other  instance  of 

30  much  folly  compacted  into  so  few  words.     My   belief  is 

that  a  great  portion  of  the  mistakes  and  consequent  woes  of 

Humanity  come  from  what  is  called  '  sticking  to  principles.' 

Jut  where  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"At  my  sister's." 
I  am  sorry,  I  wanted  so  much  to  see  her." 

"  She  will  not  come  till  late  in  the  afternoon  ;  but  will  you 
not  come  then  to  tea  ?  " 

"  I  am  already  promised  to  Clarence  Hall;  he  wants  me 
to  see  the  baby." 

"  Yes,  one  of  them  die'd.  They  were  mighty  sweet  little 
wee  things." 

That  evening  Mirabeau  went  to  take  tea  with  Clarence 
Hall  and  his  wife  and  baby.  Fred  and  Bramlette  were 
there ;  and  all  three  agreed  that  it  was  the  pleasantest,  nicest, 
petit  souper  they  ever  saw.  Mirabeau  fully  appreciated 
what  had  so  struck  his  two  friends — the  poetiy  of  Mrs.  Hall's 


240  QA   IRA. 

table.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  saw  with  pain  that  Mrs. 
Hall  had  growu  quite  pale  ;  and  he  thought  he  could  detect, 
in  spite  of  every  effort,  that  Clarence  himself  was  a  little 
restless,  as  if  uneasy  about  something. 

Ours  is  a  wonderfully  migratory  people.  Even  at  the 
time  of  this  writing — the  30th  day  of  August,  very  early  in. 
the  morning,  a  mocking-bird  singing  from  the  top  of  yon 
rich  magnolia  the  while — many  of  the  founders  of  the  club, 
some  of  our  friends  among  them,  no  longer  meet  with  it ; 
some  are  in  the  far  West,  Texas,  Salt  Lake,  and  the  Golden 
State,  and  some  have  gone  to  seek  their  fortunes  in  the 
metropolis.  It  is  oidy  safe  to  say  that  few,  if  any,  are  in  the 
Federal  capital.  It  seems  that  our  people  no  longer  have  any 
thing  to  do  or  to  say  there,  But1  wherever  they  be,  or 
wherever  they  may  be  hereafter,  they  can  never  forget  those 
delightful  evenings  at  the  club. 

The  first  evening  of  Mirabeau's  attendance  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest.  Otis  Jones — poor  fellow,  he  has  married  since 
— read  a  curious  paper  from  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  on  this 
question :  "  Are  men  and  women  fond  of  each  other  f " 
The  conclusion  was,  that  the  fondness  of  the  two  sexes  for 
one  another  is  only  pretended ;  that,  in-  fact,  it  is  the  great 
fundamental  hypocrisy  of  the  race.  The  pretence  that  men 
and  women  are  dying  of  liking  for  each  other  is  altogether  a 
fraud.  Statistics  give  no  account  of  any  such  mortality. 
Men  and  women  keep  aloof  from  each  other  ;  they  do  not  like 
each  other ;  and  their  natures  must  alter  greatly,  radically, 
before,  they  ever  do  like  each  other,  or  get  along  together  tol 
erably.  Whenever  one  gets  an  insight  into  the  core  of 
things,  one  sees  clearly  that  men  and  women  are  domestic 
creatures  under  compulsion.  The  two  sexes  do  not  like  each 
other's  society :  boys  hate  girls,  and  girls  return  the  feeling  ; 
men  support  the  costliest  clubs,  smoke,  frequent  the  billiard- 


PEACH-TREE.  247 

saloon,  the  card-table,  hunt,  fish,  do  anything  to  get  away 
from  women ;  and  all  the  women  have  clubs  in  their  draw 
ing-rooms.  Old  men  care  nothing  for  women,  except  as 
nurses ;  old  women  creep  together,  and  remain  together, 
though  it  may  be  they  have  nothing  whatever  to  say.  So 
strong  and  so  general  is  the  antipathy  between  the  two  sexes 
that  it  has  been  considered  a  work  not  only  of  philanthropy, 
but  really  a  work  of  genius,  to  contrive  ways  and  means  for 
keeping  men  at  home  with  their  wives  even  so  long  as  mo 
rality  and  domestic  economy  imperatively  require.  Female 
writers  especially  are  continually  teaching  their  younger 
sisters  artifices  and  stratagems  for  keeping  their  husbands  at 
home,  at  least  a  decent  portion  of  their  time  ;  which  indeed  is 
only  imitating  nature — nature  having  found  it  necessary  to 
bribe  them  with  children  in  order  to  keep  them  together  at 
all.  And  just  here  I  desire  to  make  a  note,  which  is  this : 
that  whenever  this  bribe  is  not  given,  it  may  be  taken  as 
conclusive  evidence  that  nature  does  not  wish  them  together 
at  all,  but  altogether  apart.  To  resume:  the  truth  is,  the 
tastes  of  the  sexes  radically  differ.  No  one  can  doubt  that 
men  and  women  dress,  not  for  the  opposite,  but  each  for  their 
own  sex ;  nay,  further,  men  and  women  always  have  a  con 
tempt  for  each  other's  styles.  Moreover,  that  men  and 
women  neither  like,  nor  respect,  nor  even  understand,  each 
other,  is  also  evident  from  their  conversation..  Whence  else 
comes  that  artificial  style  of  talk,  the  miserable  shams  and 
pretences,  the  absurd  and  wholly  unbelievable  compliments, 
which  the  sexes  indulge  in  towards  each  other  ?  Nothing  of 
the  kind  is  seen  among  men,  or  women  either,  who  honestly 
like  and  respect  each  other.  Plainly,  the  sexes  are  strangers 
to  each  other,  and  hence  betake  themselves  to  compliments. 
It  is  wonderful,  and  quite  as  sad  as  wonderful,  how  extremely 
rare  it  is  for  husband  and  wife,  even  in  the  course  of  a  long 


248  gA  IKA.. 

life,  to  become  really  intimate.  Considering  that  the  relation 
is  so  close,  and  the  ties  so  intricate,  and  especially  the  many 
trials  that  even  the  most  prosperous  must  share  together,  it 
is  astonishing  that  it  should  be  so.  Nor  can  it  be  doubted  at 
all  that  the  cases  are  rare  indeed  where  husbands  and  wives 
have  not  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts  some  sense  of  griev 
ance  against  each  other.  However  sad  it  may  be,  the  fact  is 
undeniable,  that  the  interest  which  the  sexes  have  for  each 
other  is  confined  wholly  to  one  thing — love — and  this  begins 
and  ends  with  the  central  portion  of  life.  Now,  why  not  say 
at  once,  honestly,  that  the  only  interest  which  the  sexes 
have  for  each  other  depends,  in  its  last  analysis,  exclusively 
upon  a  low  animal  propensity  ?  Does  not  the  logic  of  the 
case  lead  inexorably  to  such  conclusion  ?  Manifestly  this 
love,  which  only  exists  during  the  central  portion  of  life, 
cannot  have  for  its  foundation  anything  in  the  mind ; 
for  the  plain  reason  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  mind  which 
exists  only  during  this  portion  of  life.  Cleaiiy,  according 
to  the  logic  of  this  case,  the  only  interest  men  and  women 
have  for  each  other  must,  in  its  last  analysis,  be  only  the 
animal  propensity  aforesaid ;  but  for  that  wonderful,  though 
lowly  and  simple  arrangement,  the  two  sexes  are  the  mortal 
natural  enemies  of  each  other  !  Of  course,  this  last  idea  w;is 
not  much  talked  at"  the  club  that  night,  owing  to  the  exces 
sive  modesty  of  the  American  people.  But  the  subject 
furnished  much  matter  of  conversation.  Almost  every  one 
present  denied  the  whole  thing,  from  personal  experience 
mainly,  passing  such  absurd  and  unbelievable  compliments  the 
while,  as  went  far  to  prove  the  very  thing  they  were  denying. 
That  was  a  pleasant  evening  at  the  club.  Olive  Sutherland 
was  there,  beautiful  as  the  evening  star ;  Fred  scarcely  left 
her  side  the  whole  evening..  Emma  Harlan,  too,  was  then;, 
her  full-rounded  beauty  as  perfect  as  the  dark  magnolia-tree, 


FEACH-TRKE.  249 

yet  as  graceful  as  the  willow  of  the  Orient ;  Miss  Brooke, 
tall,  of  classic  features  and  cultured  face,  cold  gray  eye  like 
her  father's,  and  royal  tread ;  and  Mr.  Brooke  himself,  by 
special  invitation,  was  there. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Brooke,  "  that  the  church  is  not  toler 
ant  enough  of  innocent  pleasures.  To  be  sure,  none  are  pro 
scribed  which  it  defines  to  be  innocent,  but  the  very  definition 
the  church  gives  of  innocent  enjoyment  needs  to  be  vastly 
more  liberal.  Once  I  know,  and  it  was  not  very  long  ago, 
whatever  was  natural  was  thought  to  be,  ipso  facto,  wrong; 
as  if  God  had  not  made  our  natures  !  But  we  shall  get  along. 
The  church,  I  trust,  will  not  be  always  learning  these  two 
things  :  first,  that  in  matters  of  every-day  life  we  are  not 
to  be  governed  by  the  narrow  ideas  of  the  early  Reformers  and 
Puritans,  who  seemed  to  think  long  faces,  tears,  sighs,  groans, 
and  a  thousand  self-imposed  afflictions,  necessary  to  a  holy  life  ; 
and  secondly,  that  in  matters  of  doctrine  we  are  not  to  be 
confined  by  the  narrow  horizon  of  apostolic  times ;  neither 
are  we  to  suppose  but  what  there  is  a  wisdom  higher  even 
than  the  wisdom  of  apostles — the  wisdom  that  controls  and 
directs  human  events."  Manifestly  here  was  no  ignorant, 
narrow,  contemptible,  bigoted,  besotted  priest. 

"  What  think  you  of  the  paper  we  heard  read  to-night  ?  " 
asked  Mirabeau  as  he  and  Marian  walked  home ;  the  Club 
must  walk,  it  was  not  allowed  to  ride. 

"  The  intention  seems  to  be  to  show  that  men  and  women 
very  different  from  each  other." 

"  Yes  ;  fundamentally,  naturally  so." 

"  Which,  I  reckon,  is  meant  to  lead  to  the  conclusion  that 

eir  spheres,  as  they  say,  must  be  entirely  different  from 
each  other,  and  their  education  too." 

"  But  this  goes  a  step  furthei',  and  makes  them  naturally 

dislike  each  other.     Do  you  believe  that  ?  " 
11* 


250  £A    IE  A. 

"  It  would  seem  very  strange  that  it  should  be  so  ;  but  I 
don't  know  what  to  believe,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  my  own  belief  on  the  subject.  It  is  true  that 
the  sexes  do  not  understand  each  other ;  that  they  do  not 
dress  for  each  other ;  that,  as  a  rule,  they  find  more  pleasure 
in  the  company  of  their  own  sex  than  the  opposite ;  in  a 
word,  nearly  all  the  facts  are  true.  But  the  mortal  heresy  is  in 
making  all  of  this  natural.  In  fact,  it  is  altogether  unnatural, 
and  due  entirely  to  false  ideas  and  a  false  system  of  educa 
tion.  If  one  studies,  a  priori,  the  principle  which  regulates 
the  present  relations  between  the  two  sexes,  one  must  see  that 
it  is  monstrous,  therefore  unnatural ;  if  one  studies  it  histori 
cally,  one  finds  everywhere  traces  of  its  brutal  origin." 

"  What  is  this  principle  ?  " 

"  That  men  are  born  to  will  and  command ;  women,  to 
please  and  obey." 

"  But  do  you  think  that  married  people  so  seldom  become 
really  intimate?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  fear  the  case  is  sadly  rare  where  •  they  ever 
becpme  companions  in  the  highest,  truest  sense  of  that  word. 
Nor  can  it  ever  be  different  until  the  world  learns  this,  that 
real  intimacy,  true  companionship,  can  only  exist  between 
equals.  This  is  the  ideal  of  marriage  !  Think  of  what  it  may 
be  between  persons  of  equal  intellect,  equal  rights,  equal 
culture,  of  similar  tastes,  and  similar  aspirations.  Let  their 
intellects  and  culture,  then,  be  of  a  high  order,  and  their  am 
bition  broad  and  generoiis ;  and,  finally,  let  them  have  for 
each  other  that  love  which  is  alone  worthy  of  the  name  of 
love — love  founded  upon  high  esteem  and  appreciation  of 
character.  This  is  the  sacred  ideal  of  marriage." 

"  I  think  you  right  to  say  that  this  sort  of  marriage  is  very- 
rare.  And  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  picture  we  are  accus 
tomed  to  see  drawn  looks  pitiful  enough  by  the  side  of  yours." 


PEACH-TREE.  251 

tc  Oh,  yes  !  The  ordinary  picture,  even  in  its  highest  estate, 
what  is  it?  That  a  man  finding  a  slight  deficiency  in  his 
own  nature  must  appropriate  another  small  nature  in  the 
shape  of  a  wife  to  supply  the  deficiency — fortunate,  small  as 
the  need  is,  if,  haply,  he  find  a  complement  large  enough. 
He  needs  something  to  protect ;  he  must  have  a  wife  and 
children.  As  for  the  wife — poor  little  complement !  — she  must 
walk  humbly  before  him,  happy,  as  Pericles  says,  if  not 
spoken  of  at  all,  either  for  good  or  ill ;  she  must  learn  and 
practice  the  most  perfect  self-abnegation,  have  no  will,  no 
opinions  of  her  own  ;  she  must  learn  to  anticipate,  by  the 
glance  of  his  royal  eye,  all  her  husband's  wishes ;  in  a  word, 
she  must  live  in  the  light  of  his  countenance  in  the  same  sense 
that  a  cabbage  lives  in  the  light  of  the  sun." 
,  "  Yes  ;  let  me  you  tell  what  I  heard  Dr.  Williams  say  the 
other  night  in  an  address  to  a  graduating  class  of  young 
ladies.  He  said,  the  highest  and  holiest  duty  of  every  woman 
is  to  love  and  save  some  one  man !  " 

"  Precisely.  But  we  must  have  a  different  class  of 
teachers  from  Dr.  Williams." 

"  Think  you  they  could  accomplish  much  in  this  coun- 
try?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  know  there  is  a  fearful  mass  of  darkness,  ignorance, 
miserable  conservatism  to  be  got  clear  of;  but  people  will 
accept  the  truth  when  they  get  light.  The  first  thing  to  be 
done  is  to  get  our  '  State  University '  open  to  our  women. 
Is  it  not  wonderful  that  our  (  State  University '  should  be 
closed  against  our  women  ?  For  the  higher  education  of  her 
sons  our  State  spends  many  thousands  of  dollars ;  for  that 
of  her  daughters,  not  one  cent !  Is  it  not  monstrous  ?  "  .  .  . 

Clarence  Hall  was  quite  right  in  saying  that  Mr.  Malcomb 
was  not  the  Council,  or  a  majority  of  it.  Mr.  Malcomb  was 
liberal,  the  representative  man  of  the  new  order  of  things 


252  gA  IRA. 

in  the  State  as  well  as  in  the  city;  but  the  majority  of  the 
Council  were  conservative,  in  sympathy  with  the  great 
majority  of  the  controlling  classes.  The  business  enei'gy  of 
the  city  getting  for  the  time  the  upper  hand  of  its  worn-out 
and  ridiculous  politics,  Mr.  Malcomb  had  been  prevailed  on 
to  accept  his  present  office ;  but  this  action  being  entirely 
abnormal,  and*  things  having  gone  back  into  their  ancient 
and  time-honored  rut,  he  found  it  almost  impossible  to  im 
part  any  of  his  own  liberal  views  to  his  colleagues,  or  to  en 
gage  them  in  any  of  his  progressive  plans.  That  he  did  any 
thing  at  all  is  only  due  to  his  marvellous  tact  and  energy. 
Still  he  had  done  much.  Under  almost  every  conceivable 
discouragement,  the  growth  of  the  city  in  population  and 
wealth  was  truly  wonderful ;  within  a  few  years  both  had 
been  almost  trebled ;  and  with  all  its  braggadocio,  quite  as 
marvellous  as  anything  else  about  it,  it  was  already  the  me 
tropolis  of  the  State,  and  aspiring  to  be  the  metropolis  of  the 
Gulf  section.  Mr.  Malcomb,  with  the  aid  of  a  few  others, 
had  also,  by  consummate  management,  succeeded  in  estab 
lishing,  for  the  whites,  an  excellent  and  thorough  system  of 
public  schools  in,  the  city.  He  was  now  endeavoring  to 
make  some  such  provision  for  the  colored  population.  And 
in  this,  Hall,  as  was  indeed  to  be  expected,  seeing  that  he 
was  a  young  man,  a  University  man,  of  liberal  culture  and 
enlightened  understanding,  ardently  sympathized.  But.  as 
might  also  have  been  expected  from  the  prevailing  ridiculous 
conservatisms,  this  eminently  just  and  progressive  measure 
was  opposed  with  much  violence  by  the  dominating  party — 
the  "  time-honored  principles  "  men.  There  was  to  be  an  elec 
tion,  by  the  Mayor  and  Council,  of  a  city  attorney,  an  office 
of  considerable  trust  and  handsome  salary,  but  usually  given 
to  a  young  man  supposed  to  possess  superior  talents;  and  the 
less  money  the  candidate  had,  the  better,  for  sympathy  and 


PEACH-TREE.  253 

an  earnest^Iesire  to  help  along  the  young  and  deserving  are 
among  the  nobler  characteristics  of  this  people ;  but,  above 
all  things,  he  must  be  "  square "  in  politics.  Hall,  as  we 
have  seen,  was  a  candidate  for  this  office,  and  had  the  sympa 
thy  of  Mr.  Malcomb. 

On  the  day  before  the  election  was  to  be,  .Hall,  at  the  re 
quest  of  Mr.  Malcomb,  called  at  his  office  for  a  short  interview 
upon  the  subject. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Malcomb,  going,  as  was 
his  custom,  straight  to  the  subject,  "  to  ask  what  you  wish 
to  be  done  to-morrow.  You  know,  of  course,  that  if  you  are 
a  candidate  I  shall  give  you  my  vote;  but  my  judgment  is, 
we  shall  be  defeated ;  and  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you.  But 
for  this  question  of  the  schools,  which  certainly  ought  not  to 
have  been  brought  in  at  all,  being  quite  foreign,  and  which 
is  therefore  the  more  unfortunate  for  you,  I  think  we  should 
not  have  met  with  opposition.  Still,  if  you  remain  a  candi 
date,  I  shall  do  all  I  can  for  yo\i." 

"  Whether  I  am  successful  or  beaten,  I  am  under  equal 
obligations  to  you.  And  I  will  say  also,  that  I  would  a 
.thousand  times  rather  be  beaten  for  my  adherence  to  a  policy 
so  eminently  wise  and  just,  than  succeed  by  opposing  it. 
Moreover,  though  I  should  be  beaten,  yet,  if  you,  or  this 
measure  which  you  represent,  shall  gain  any  strength  by 
agitating  the  question,  I  am  content."  * 

"  My  judgment  then  is,  that  I  would  make  the  fight;  for 
we  can  bring  such  influences  to  bear  that  we  shall  barely  be 

3aten.  I  think  we  can  so  manage  as  to  leave  a  very  small 
apparent  majority  against  the  school  measure — much  smaller, 
fact,  than  really  exists ;  and  in  this  way  the  measure 
will,  as  you  suggested,  be  strengthened.  We  should  have 
gotten  a  small  majority  but  for  the  Governor's  speech  the 
other  day." 


254  £A    IRA. 

"  I  looked  upon  that  simply  as  an  expression  of  the  Gov 
ernor's  individual  opinion.  But  I  see  now :  that  agitated 
the  general  question,  the  newspapers  took  it  up,  and  scattered 
it  among  the  people." 

"  Yes ;  and  it  may  be  that  some  of  our  electors,  or  some 
of  the  friends  of  our  electors,  want  some  favors  from  the 
Governor.  Do  you  remember  what  he  said  in  his  speech  ? 

"  He  said :  '  The  negro  must  not  be  educated.  Teach 
your  bootblack  Greek,  and  he  at  once  either  becomes  a  ras 
cal  or  is  called  to  preach.'  The  truth  is,  our  Governor  is 
a  partial  failure  :  he  began  his  administration  with  a  decla 
ration,  as  you  know,  of  his  belief  in  the  '  omnipotence  of 
honesty,'  and  immediately,  as  all  the  State  knows,  united 
his  influence  with  that  of  others  to  prevent  the  exposure  of 
one  of  the  leaders  of  his  own  party.  And  now  he  comes 
forward  with  a  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  the  'ignorance  of 
the  masses.'  Such  a  statement  must  have  sounded  strangely 
enough  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  University." 

"  I  think,  though,  you  do  the  Governor  slight  injustice. 
He  did  not  say  he  believed  in  the  '  ignorance  of  the  masses, * 
but  in  the  '  ignorance  of  the  negro."1  I  say  a  slight  injustice, 
because  the  principle  involved  is  quite  the  same.  But  as 
we  have  spoken  of  the  Governor,  I  will  not  omit  to  say  that, 
however  widely  we  may  differ  on  many  of  the  greatest  ques 
tions,  I  cannot  bi*t  honor  the  man  who  has,  in  spite  of  many 
obstacles,  made  his  way  from  the  anvil  to  be  Governor  of  the 
State." 

Clarence  Hall  left  Mr.  Malcomb's  office,  feeling  much  de 
pressed.  The  truth  is,  his  private  affairs  were  not  in  the 
best  condition ;  and  he  had  not  till  now  quite  given  up  the 
prospect  of  getting  this  officer.  The  salary  attached  to  it, 
though  small,  had  really  become  an  item  with  him.  Mira- 
beau  was  quite  right  when  he  thought  he  detected  a  sort  of 


PEACH-TREE.  255 

unrest,  a  vague  uneasiness  and  restlessness.  Clarence  Hall 
was  in  debt  y  and  he  did  not  at  all  see  his  way  out.  He  felt 
dissatisfied,  knew  that  he  was  testy,  and  in  low  spirits.  But 
did  not  wish  his  wife,  whom  he  had  left  after  dinner  with 

slight  headache,  to  see  him  so ;  and  when  he  started  home 
late    iu   the  afternoon,  he   thought  to  revive  his  spirits  by 

tepping    across    the    street    to    the  "Turf  Exchange"  and 
taking  a  glass  of  brandy.     He  swallowed  a  good  large  glass- 

il,  and  not  being  at  all  in  the  habit  of  taking  it,  the  effect 
was  greater  than  he  had  looked  for;  besides,  it  was  just  the 
opposite  of  what  he  intended :  instead  of  making  him  feel 
better,  it  only  made  him  feel  worse,  and  added  also  something 
of  a  "  don't  care  "  feeling.  It  so  happened  that  he  met  Mr. 
Dearing  just  coming  out  of  his  own  gate,  and  stopped  to 
speak  a  few  words  with  him.  He  talked  rather  loud,  and 
his  wife,  who  was  lying  on  the  bed,  came  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  He  thought  he 
made  a  great  noise  getting  up  the  steps,  and  in  the  hall  he 
stumbled  over  an  unlucky  chair  and  fell  with  a  crash.  His 
wife's  headache  was  worse  than  it  had  been  at  dinner,  and  the 
baby  was  sick  and  fretful.  Clarence  Hall  was  quite  wretched. 
J>ut  let  us  see  what  some  other  of  our  friends  were  doing  on 
this  identical  night.  The  prevailing  opinion  was,  that  the 
practice  of  law  and  the  study  of  literature  were  quite  incom 
patible  occupations.  And  when  it  once  got  to  be  suspected 
that  a  young  attorney  was  running  off  after  literature,  the 
litigating  public  became  shy  of  him,  shook  its  head,  and  said 
he  would  not  stick  ;  wanted  to  do  too  many  things  at  once  ;  was 
theoretical,  airy,  wouldn't  do  to  tie  to;  in  a  word,  that  man 
was  as  utterly  lost  as  tax-money.  Bramlette  was  exactly  in 
this  predicament  now.  He  had  not  paid  imich  attention  to 
this  fact,  because,  being  a  man  of  culture  and  understanding, 
he  must  have  despised  it ;  and  furthermore,  the  impulse  to 


256  £A    IRA. 

read  and  write  was  to  him  irresistible.  Consequently  he  fre 
quented  daily  the  Young  Men's  Library,  and  was  always 
engaged  in  taking  notes.  Of  course,  the  litigating  public  ob 
served  this,  and  the  inevitable  result  soon  followed.  But  it  can 
not  be  denied  that  Bramlette,  though  he  possessed  undoubted 
genius,  was  inclined  to  be  vacillating,  fitful,  and  uncertain. 
His  notions  seemed  to  crowd  each  other  out.  And,  as 
Brooke  of  Tipton  was  at  least  once  known  to  observe,  a  man 
may  have  any  number  of  notions,  and  nothing  come  of  them  ; 
nothing  come  of  them,  you  know.  So  it  was  with  poor 
Bramlette.  Sometimes  he  thought  he  would  write  for  maga 
zines  ;  sometimes  he  thought  he  would  write  books ;  he 
thought  of  trying  to  get  a  professorship  in  some  college  ;  and 
then  he  thought  of  letting  everything  else  drop,  and  giving 
his  whole  time  and  attention  to  his  profession.  But  as  for 
this  latter,  it  had  become  quite  distasteful  to  him,  and  he 
had  about  given  it  up.  Mirabeau  Holmes  and  Fred  went  to 
the  Library.  Bramlette  was  not  there,  as  he  usually  was ; 
and  so  they  went  to  his  room.  They  found  him  seated  at 
a  rather  large  round  table.  He  was  leaning  forward,  his 
head  resting  upon  the  table,  and  did  not  observe  them  until 
they  had  entered.  The  table  was  covered  with  note-books, 
straggling  sheets  of  paper,  and  a  great  mass  of  manuscript,  all 
in  the  greatest  confusion. 

"  What  is  all  this  mess  you  have  here  ?  "  said  Fred,  at  the 
same  time  taking  up  a  piece  of  the  manuscript  and  beginning 
to  read — "  Chapter  Second — voyages  and  discoveries — " 

"  Take  seats,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Bramlette, " 
picking  up  a  newspaper  which  had  fallen  at  his  side  and  put 
ting  it  on  the  table.  "  You  see,"  he  resumed,  "  I  got  a  no 
tion  into  my  head  to  write  a  School  History  of  the  United 
States.  I  could  not  imagine  a  book  that  was  more  needed, 
especially  in  the  South,  or  one  that  would  be  likely  to  pay 


PEACII-TKEE.  257 

its  author  more  handsomely.  In  fact,  all  the  school  histo 
ries  of  this  country  we  have  being  Northern  books,  a  correct 
history  written  from  a  Southern  standpoint  would  run  the 
whole  of  them  out  of  our  schools  and  be  used  by  everybody. 
That  was  what  I  thought,  and  that  is  what  I  think  yet. 
What  do  you  all  say  ?  "  They  both  agreed.  "  Well,  I  took 
it  into  my  head  to  write  it ;  and  for  two  months  I  have 
been  working  upon  it  with  all  my  might.  I  have  got  a  third 
of  it  done.  Now  just  read  that  announcement" — handing 
him  the  newspaper.  Fred  took  the  paper  and  read  the  an 
nouncement,  to  the  effect  that  Alexander  H.  Stephens,  Vice- 
President  of  the  Confederate  States,  and  author  of  a  "  His 
tory  of  the  War  between  the  States,"  had  completed  his 
"  School  History  of  the  United  States,"  and  that  it  would 
appear  at  an  early  day. 

"  So  you  see,"  resumed  Bramlette,  "  all  the  work  I  have 
done  goes  for  nothing.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Stephens's  name  alone  woiild  be  sufficient  to  enable  Ms  book 
to  overpower  mine,  his  will  be  in  the  hands  of  everybody  long 
before  mine  could  be  finished  ;  and  you  know  one  of  the  uni 
versal,  standing  complaints  among  ovir  people  is,  having  to 
buy  so  many  sorts  of  schoolbooks." 

"  Yes,"  obsei-ved  Fred,  "  it's  about  as  universal,  and  more 
standing,  than  bowel-complaint  in  summer." 

§"  What  do  you  propose  to  do,  then  ?  "  asked  Mirabeau. 
"  What  can  1  do  but  stop,  short  off,  and  go  at  something 
else  ?  " 

"  Do  !  Why,  go  ahead  and  write  your  book.  Let  us  think 
about  this  a  little  :  if  Mr.  Stephens  had  not  already,  at  least  to 
a  great  extent,  appeased  the  wrath  of  the  country  which  he 
brought  upon  himself  by  his  course  during  the  war,  his  book 
would  be  of  advantage  to  you  rather  than  otherwise  ;  but 
this  ho  has  done  by  writing  the  '  History  of  the  War  between 


258  gA  IEA- 

the  States.'  I  don't  know  all  that  this  book  of  his  will  be, 
but  we  all  know  enough  of  the  author  to  know  that  in  the 
book  the  political  portion  will  overshadow  all  the  rest.  It 
may  even  be  scarcely  anything  more  than  a  history  of  the  po 
litics  of  the  country." 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that  light." 

"  It  is  strange  that  you  had  not." 

"  No  ;  it  is  not  strange  at  all,"  said  Fred  ;  "  he  never  read 
Buckle." 

"  I  have  it ;  I  will  lend  it  to  you  ;  it  is  necessary  for  you 
to  read  it  at  once.  But  a  man  might  know,  I  should  think, 
without  having  read  Buckle,  that  the  history  of  the  politics 
is  not  the  history  of  the  country  itself;  in  point  of  fact,  it  is 
a  very  small  portion  of  it  indeed.  We  want  something  like 
a  history  of  the  civilization  of  this  country.  We  want  to 
know  something  of  the  character  of  our  people,  and  of  the 
forces  that  have  operated  to  make  it  what  it  is  ;  we  want 
these  forces  arranged  into  general  and  local,  so  as  to  enable 
us  to  account  for  local  characteristics.  We  want  a  history 
of  discovery,  invention,  literature,  art,  science,  education, 
and  all  manner  of  industry  ;  we  want  a  history  of  the  prog 
ress  of  knowledge  in  all  its  branches." 

"  What  about  Politics,  Religion,  and  War,  the  trinity  of 
all  ancient  and  modern  histories  down  to  Buckle  ? "  asked 
Fred. 

"  Of  course,  a  short  account  must  be  given  of  each  ot 
them ;  but  it  must  be  entirely  subordinate.  That  is,  they 
must  be  subordinated  in  this  sense :  That  they  depend  abso 
lutely,  and  necessarily,  upon  something  beyond  themselves, 
to  wit :  Knowledge.  Given  the  amount  of  knowledge,  and 
the  extent  of  its  diffusion,  in  any  country,  and  if  you  know 
its  traditions,  you  may  determine  with  absolute  certainty  what 
its  politics  will  be,  and  what  its  religion.  And  as  for  War, 


PEACH-TKEE.  259 

if  anybody  will  point  out  any  good  as  likely  to  arise  to  Hu 
manity  from  the  digestion  of  any  number  of  tons  of  war- 
fact,  why,  I  will  agree  for  a  portion  of  our  libraries  still  to 
be  given  up  to  that  sort  of  books.  Write  your  book,  my 
friend,  by  all  means." 

"  Have  you  decided,  then,"  said  Fred,  "  to  quit  law  entire 
ly  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  am  completely  disgusted  with  it.  I  wrote  to 
the  old  Doctor  about  it  the  other  day.  You  know  he  was 
very  much  opposed  to  my  studying  it  at  first.  He  says  it 
would  be  better  for*me  to  quit  it  even  now." 

"  I  am  glad,"  remarked  Fred,  "  that  you  have  quit  it.  I 
can  abuse  it  now  as  much  as  I  please.  Old  Senator  Macon 
was  right  when  he  thought  it  to  be  the  most  contemptible 
profession  extant.  He  considered  it  beneath  the  dignity  of 
a  private  gentleman,  and  wanted  to  hand  it  over  to  the  gov 
ernment.  As  for  my  part,  I  would  rather  roll  a  wheelbar 
row  or  groom  a  jackass  than  be  a  lawyer." 

"  I  have  often  thoiight  of  William  Wirt's  saying,  that  he 
had  no  title  to  remembrance  but  the  British  Spy.  A_nd  he 
was  greater  than  most  great  lawyers.  I  think  he  told  the 
truth,"  said  Bramlette. 

"  The  law  is  essentially  a  profession  for  only  ordinary 
minds.  Its  very  terms  exclude  the  possibility  of  high  mental 
effort.  The  highest  mental  effort,  indeed  the  only  truly  high 
effort  of  the  human  mind,  is  creative  effort,  and  the  very 
terms  of  the  law  exclude  all  idea  of  creation.  The  mere 
politician,  low  as  he  is  comparatively,  is  yet  one  step  above 
the  lawyer.  The  mere  lawyer  cannot  create,  he  can  only 
interpret ;  he  must  confine  himself  to  this  subordinate  and 
essentially  low  office  ;  he  can  only  interpret  and  arrange ; 
the  moment  he  goes  beyond  this  he  is  outside  of  the  law," 
said  Mirabeau. 


260 

"  And  all  this  is  true  of  the  upper  story ;  but  when  you 
descend  to  the  wrangling  lower  story  !  The  bare  thought  of 
it  makes  me  stop  up  my  ears  and  hold  my  nose,"  said 
Fred. 

"  You  are  both  unquestionably  right.  I  know  it  now ; 
but  I  did  not  several  years  ago.  I  studied  law  in  obedience 
to  an  ambition  and  design  formed  when  a  boy.  Then  the  law 
yers  and  orators — and  orators  were  mostly  lawyers — controll 
ed  the  country  ;  but  nous  avons  change  tout  cela  !  "  said  Bram- 
lette. 

Mr.  Malcomb  thought  there  was  slight  difference  in  be 
lieving  in  the  "ignorance  of  the  masses,"  and  believing  in 
the  "  ignorance  of  the  negro"  But  not  so  his  colleagues  of 
the  City  Council.  Mr.  Malcomb  endeavored  to  show  them 
that  it  was  not  only  the  duty  of  the  State,  or  city,  to  provide 
for  the  education  of  all,  black  as  well  as  white,  but  that  it 
would  in  this  case  be  immensely  to  their  own  advantage.  He 
showed  them  that  the  greatest  of  our  needs  was  skilled  labor, 
and  this  we  could  not  have  without  educating  the  laborer. 
He  then  placed  it  upon  the  low  consideration  of  dollars  and 
cents,  showing  that  it  takes  more  to  take  care  of  our  crim 
inals  than  it  would  to  educate  all,  and  that  our  prisons  are 
mostly  filled  with  the  ignorant.  This  was  the  argument  in 
reply  :  If  you  educate  a  villain  you  only  increase  his  capa 
city  for  mischief ;  all  negroes  are  villains  ;  therefore  we  will 
not  educate  the  negro  ! 

Clarence  Hall  was  beaten  ;  but,  as  Mr.  Malcomb  foretold, 
only  by  a  very  small  vote. 


PEACH-TKEE.  2G] 


CHAPTER   XYIII. 

"  The  real  temple  of  the  Supreme  Being  is  the  universe ;  his  worship,  virtue ;  his 
festivals,  the  joy  of  a  great  nation  assembled  in  his  presence  to  knit  closer  the  bonds 
of  universal  fraternity,  and  to  pay  him  the  homage  of  intelligent  and  pure  hearts." — 
KOBESPIERKE. — Speech  in  the  Convention. 

MIR  ABE  AU  HOLMES  was  now  often  at  Mr.  Malcomb's. 
Marian  was  always  glad  to  see  him.  She  expected  something 
better  from  him  than  from  most  young  men  who  visited  her. 
She  admired  him,  admired  his  talents,  his  ardent  sympathy, 
his  lofty  aims,  and  his  delicate  sense  of  honor.  He  recognized 
all  these  qualities  in  her,  and  he  loved  her  for  them,  which 
indeed  is  the  same  as  saying  he  loved  her  for  herself ;  for  it 
was  these  that  made  herself.  And  she  felt  for  him  at  least  that 
esteem  which  is  the  only  foundation  for  love  of  the  highe  t 
order.  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  here  one  reason  why  these 
two  liked  to  be  together — a  reason  quite  independent  of  all 
higher  or  deeper  considerations :  they  did  not  feel  obliged  to 
be  continually  laughing  when  together.  The  reader  must 
know  that  in  this  wonderful,  ridiculous  little  democratic 
city,  this  was  a  custom:  "Good  evening,  Miss  Susie." 
"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Jones.  I  have  scarcely  had  a  glimpse  of 
you  this  evening."  (Laughter.)  "  I  have  been  out  on  the 
veranda,  and  in  the  other  room,  looking  for  you  for  an 
hour."  (Renewed  and  continued  laughter.)  And  then  Mr. 
Jones  asked  :  "  How  have  you  been  enjoying  yourself,  Miss 
Susie  ?  "  And  Miss  Susie  answered  and  said  :  "  Oh  !  charm 
ingly."  (he  he  he !  ha  ha  ha!)  And  then  Miss  Susie  ob 
served,  says  she — "  How  have  you  enjoyed  yourself,  Mr. 
Jones  ?  "  And  Mr.  Jones  remarked,  says  he — "  Splendidly  ! 


262  gA  IRA. 

only  I  wish  I  had  seen  more  of  you."  (he  he  he  !  ha  ha  ha ! 
ha  he  he,  ha  ha,  he-  e-e  ee  !)  In  short,  dear  reader,  it  was  a 
"  he  he  he,"  and  a  "  ha  ha  ha,"  in  great  force.  Laugh,  la\igh, 
laugh !  Laugh  everywhere ;  laugh  at  everything ;  laugh 
eternally,  till  the  crack  of  doom.  Custom  demanded  this. 
If  you  failed  to  observe  it,  two  things  followed  :  your  com 
panion  voted  you  stupid,  unable  to  appreciate  a  good  thing, 
and  probably  did  some  original  thinking  to  this  effect — 
"  Casting  pearls  before  swine ;  "  and  then  your  companicfh 
was  also  slightly  miserable  at  not  being  able  to  entertain  you, 
in  spite  of  your  horrid  stupidity.  The  fact  is,  there  was  so 
much  of  this  laughter  that  people  of  culture  above  common, 
and  with  some  just  notions  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  things, 
were  bored  out  of  their  lives  almost.  Not  that  laughter  is, 
per  se,  a  bad  or  improper  thing ;  far  from  it.  A  good  shak 
ing  laugh  occasionally  is  good  for  the  health.  Fred  Yan 
Comer  said  once,  that  it  ought  to  be  one  of  the  main  duties 
of  the  State,  coming  under  the  head  of"  sanitary  regulations," 
to  place  a  copy  of  Pickwick  Papers  in  the  hands  of  every 
family,  with  an  injunction  to  read  at  least  one  chapter  night 
and  morning.  As  to  that  two  millions  of  grown-up  men,  and 
four  millions  of  women,  among  us,  who  have  not  learned  the 
art  of  spelling  printed  letters,  clearly  they  would  have  to  be 
supplied  with  an  "  Illustrated  Pickwick,"  and  look  at  the 
pictures  with  the  children. 

So  in  the  midst  of  this  universal  mania,  it  was  refreshing 
for  two  people  who  appreciated  each  other,  to  get  together 
and  talk,  with  a  mutual  understanding  that  this  ridiculous 
custom  be  quietly  ignored.  The  lives  of  these  two  people 
were  becoming  more  and  more  interwoven  day  by  day.  ]\ lira- 
beau  did  not  feel  himself  "  consumed  "  by  love.  He  rather 
thought  that  this  "  consuming  "  sort  of  love  was  the  Epicurean 
love,  which  mainly  makes  itself  known  by  such  exclamations 


PEACH-TKEE.  203 

as  these  :  "  What  an  arm  !  What  a  bosom  !  What  an  ankle  ! 
Oh  !  she's  a  rare  piece  !  "  And  this,  doubtless,  is  the  kind  of 
love  that  Philosopher  Paley  deems  a  most  unsafe  foundation 
for  marriage. 

Many  have  said,  but  only  Buckle  has  shown,  how  impossi 
ble  it  is  for  any  man,  however  great,  to  escape  the  pressure 
of  surrounding  opinions.  It  was  known  to  her  friends  that 
Mrs.  Sutherland  was- about  to  publish  another  book.  Mira- 
b%au  Holmes  looked  for  it  with  special  interest ;  for  he 
had  conceived  a  high  admiration  for  her  talents,  which  was 
not  at  all  diminished  by  a  contemplation  of  her  surperb 
personal  beauty.  Moreover,  he  said  to  Fred  one  day  that  he 
believed  she  would  be  able  to  withstand  the  pressure  of  con 
servatism  and  phariseeism.  Fred  thought  she  would  not. 
The  book  came  out — duly  embellished  with  scripture  quota 
tions,  and  "  States  rights."  One  evening  at  a  tea-party  at 
Mr.  Brooke's,  Mr.  Brooke,  who  read  everything,  introduced 
the  subject  of  Mrs.  Sutherland's  last  book. 

"  The  French  Count,"  said  Miss  Brooke,  "  speaks  broken 
French.  And  what  a  ridiculous  fellow  that  Paul  is  !  When 
Gertrude  tells  him  there  is  nothing  in  her  heart  but  ashes, 
he  meekly  asks  her  to  '  give  him  the  ashes  !  '  But  Marian  has 
just  shown  me  that  that  comes  from  Lucile.  Can  you  repeat 
the  lines,  Marian  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  ;  but  I  think  they  are  something 
like  this : 

"  ' though  ruin'd  it  be, 

Since  so  dear  is  that  ruin,  ah,  yield  it  to  me.  '  " 

"  It  seems  to  have  been  written  in  a  great  hurry,"  observ 
ed  Bramlette. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  '  half-hammer ' — a  hop,  skip,  and  a 
jump,"  said  Fred  Van  Comer. 

"  But    what   a  statesman   is    Mr.  Hall !     Great,  without 


2G4  gA  IIIA. 

doing,  saying,  or  thinking  anything  above  John  Smith.  But 
that  is  not  wonderful,  seeing  that  he  is  a  conservative  of 
the  Junius  ilk,"  said  Mirabeau  Holmes. 

"  But  Mr.  Stephens  says  the  book  is  a  literary  treat,"  said 
Mr.  Brooke. 

. "  The  man  that  finds  it  so  would  dine  contentedly  off  a 
brick-bat  custard,"  said  Fred. 

Mirabeau  had  never  been  in  Mr.  Brooke's  parlor  before  ; 
and  finding  here  a  fine  painting,  and  learning  that  it  vwis 
from  a  Georgia  artist,  he  expressed  his  admiration. 

"  I  fear  I  should  not  have  thought  you  a  great  friend  of 
art,"  said  Miss  Brooke. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Mirabeau,  abruptly. 

"  Did  not  the  Commune  pull  down  the  Column  ?  Was  it 
not  hostile  to  art  ?  " 

"  I  doubt  not  Mr.  Holmes  can  answer  that  satisfactorily  ; 
at  least  to  the  '  Left '  of  any  audience,"  said  Mr.  Brooke. 

"  The  Commune  demolished  the  Imperial  column,"  said 
Mirabeau  ;  "  I  myself  voted  for  its  demolition.  I  think  the 
reasoning  of  the  Commune  itself  ought  to  be  satisfactory  to 
everybody — except  '  divine  right  and  lilies  of  Bourbon ' 
people.  The  Commune  was  not  hostile  to  art.  The  magnifi 
cent  portrait  of  Washington  presided  over  its  deliberations, 
and  the  walls  of  the  Court  of  Honor  were  covered  with  por 
traits  of  other  great  Republicans.  In  an  art-point  of  view, 
the  Column  was  worthless;  but  if  it  had  been  the  finest 
specimen  of  art  on  the  earth  it  would  have  been  demolished 
all  the  same.  The  Column  represented  the  glorification  of 
Militarism,  and  the  negation  of  two  of  the  principles  of  the 
Commune — Equality  and  Fraternity.  The  Commune  was 
not  hostile  to  art,  but  it  was  hostile  to  Despotism,  and  to 
whatever  glorified  it.  The  '  Arc  de  Triomphe '  was  not 
demolished.  Why  ?  because  it  represented,  though  only  in 


PEACII-TEEE.  265 

part,  tlic  triumphs  of  the  Republic  and  Liberty.  It  was  this 
that  made  it  sacred.  Think  you  they  would  have  destroyed 
the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  ?  The  last  one  of  them,  chiefs 
and  people,  would  have  died  in  its  defence  !  n 

"  You  speak  of  two  of  the  principles  of  the  Commune — 
Equality  and  Fraternity,"  said  Bramlette ;  "  of  course  you 
mean  universal  equality  and  fraternity  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  But  have  I  not  heard  you  say  that  this  war  was  not  the 
work  of  the  International  Association ;  that  it  was  not 
intended  to  be  a  universal  social  and  political  revolution  ; 
but  that  it  was  only  to  protect  the  Republic  and  the  rights 
of  Paris  ?  " 

*'  Yes." 

"  Why,  then,  should  you  demolish  the  Column  because  it 
represented  the  negation  of  universal  fraternity  ?  " 

"  Though  the  Commune  did  not  pretend  to  inaugurate  the 
great  Revolution  of  which  you  speak — for  indeed  it  expressly 
disclaimed  it — yet,  the  principles  of  the  Commune  and  the 
International  Association  are  identical.  We  look  forward 
to  the  Universal  Republic,  which,  indeed,  seems  a  dream  of 
enthusiasm  and  worthy  to  be  laughed  at  only  to  tyrants  and 
their  either  ignorant  or  designing  abettors.  Under  the 
Universal  Republic  wars  shall  cease ;  love  of  country  shall 
give  place  to  love  of  Humanity  ;  imaginary  State  lines 
shall  not  be  sufficient  to  make  people  enemies ;  all  shall 
acknowledge  the  whole  human  family  to  be  a  Common 
Brotherhood,  having  common  interests,  a  common  sympathy 
in  a  common  struggle,  a  common  glory,  and  a  common 
destiny.  This  is  the  ultimate  aim  of  the  International  Asso 
ciation,  with  which  the  Commune  was  certainly  in  the 
warmest  sympathy.  That  the  International  Association  will 
finally  succeed  in  its  mission,  I  will  not  suffer  myself  to 
12 


266  QA  IRA. 

doubt  for  an  instant.  The  time  will  surely  come  when  all  the 
world  shall  unite  to  raise  a  monument  to  its  founders." 

"  If  that  all  be  a  dream,  it  is  certainly  a  very  grand  one," 
said  Marian. 

"  But,"  said  Miss  Brooke,  having  retired  from  the  room 
a  moment,  and  reentering  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  "  \ve 
shall  not  let  you  off  so  easily  as  that.  You  have  told 
us  the  ultimate  object  of  the  Internationale ;  but  by  what 
means  does  it  propose  to  accomplish  the  end  ?  This  book — 
History  of  the  Commune — says  the  programme  of  the  Interna 
tionale  is  this : 

"  '  The  abolishment  of  all  religions. 

The  abolishment  of  all  property. 

The  abolishment  of  all  family. 

The  abolishment  of  all  nationality.' " 

"  The  question,  then,"  answered  Mirabeau,  "  is  simply 
this,  whether  you  will  believe  its  own  declarations,  or  the 
representations  of  its  enemies  ?  The  case  is,  if  the  objects  of 
an  institution  are  good,  palpably  good  and  pure,  they  must 
be  misrepresented  before  the  enemies  of  the  institution  can 
hope  to  assail  it  successfully." 

"  To  the  honor  of  Humanity  be  it  said,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Brooke. 

"  And  when  I  see  a  man,"  resumed  Mirabeau,  "  in  an 
attack  upon  anything,  resorting  to  misrepresentation  and 
falsehood,  I  at  once  become  suspicious  that,  for  his  purposes, 
that  thing  is  too  good, to  be  exhibited  in  its  true  colors.  So 
with  the  author  of  this  programme.  The  only  thing  about  it 
•which  is  not  false  is  that  concerning  the  abolition  of  nation 
ality.  But  as  to  the  abolishment  of  nationality,  no  one  can 
be  so  simple  as  to  suppose  we  "mean  simply  and  abruptly  to 
wipe  out  national  boundaries ;  we  mean  that  the  spirit  of 
nationality  shall  give  place  to  the  spirit  of  Humanity  ;  but 


PEACII-TKEE.  267 

we  do  mean  that  even  now  all  peoples  ought  to  refuse  to  go 
to  war  with  and  butcher  each  other  at  the  command  of  their 
tyrants ;  and  we  also  suggest  that  they  emphasize  their 
refusal  by  cutting  their  tyrants'  heads  off.  As  for  the 
family,  though  certainly  the  institution  might  be  greatly  im 
proved,  the  charge  that  we  mean  to  abolish  it  is  quite  as 
false  as  the  idea  is  absurd.  As  for  the  '  abolishment  of  all 
religions,'  this  is  what  we  purpose  :  To  fill  the  whole  world 
with  light,  knowing  that  all  false  religions,  in  other  words 
all  forms  and  systems  of  superstition,  will  disappear  before 
it.  But  if  any  religion  should  interfere  to  prevent  this,  we 
should  crush  such  interference  at  all  costs.  Nor  would  we 
allow  priests  to  extort  money  from  the  people  for  any  pre 
tended  remission  of  sins  or  promises  of  rewards  hereafter  ; 
we  call  that  obtaining  money  or  goods  under  false  pretences ; 
it  is  swindling ;  we  call  for  its  punishment  by  law." 

"  Did  not  the  Commune  believe  insBtheism  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Brooke. 

"  No." 

"  Some  of  them  were  atheists." 

11  Yes ;  notably,  Bigault  was  an  atheist.  And  some  of 
the  fathers  of  the  American  Republic  were  infidels  ;  notably, 
Jefferson.  But  the  Republic  was  not  therefore  unchristian." 

"  What  was  the  religion  of  the  Commune  ?  " 

"  One  God ;  the  immortality  of  the  soul ;  and  a  virtuous 
life.  And  the  precepts  of  its  religion  were  these  three : 
Trust  in  God  ;  love  virtue ;  and  do  good  to  one  another. 
Of  course,  you  understand  that  I  speak  of  the  majority; 
lere  were  many  differences  of  belief  among  the  iudi- 
iduals." 

"  But  what  about  the  abolishment  of  property  ?  "  asked 
Ir.  Brooke.  . 

"  That,"  said  Mirabeau,  "  I  believe  is  what  most  people  call 


268  (;A  IRA. 

the  practical  question.  The  Intel-national  Association  does 
not  propose  to  abolish  property,  but  only  to  hit  upon  some 
plan  by  which  its  benefits  may  be  more  equalized.  I  need  not 
speak  of  the  enormous  wretchedness  of  at  least  nine-tenths 
of  the  human  race,  or  of  the  admitted  fact  that  it  is  in 
creasing  instead  of  diminishing.  Not  to  enter  into  the  whys 
and  wherefores,  the  fact  is,  that  there  is  enough  and  more 
than  enough  in  the  world  to  make  the  whole  human  family 
comfortable.  But  somehow,  through  no  fault  of  the  nine- 
tenths,  or  any  merit  of  the  one-tenth,  all  of  it  has  got 
into  the  hands  of  the  one-tenth  ;  the  nine-tenths  starve,  and 
the  one-tenth  wastes  enough  to  make  them  comfortable. 
Manifestly  there  is  something  wrong.  We  propose  to  rectify 
this  wrong  and  provide  for  the  future." 

"  That  is  very  indefinite.  What  is  the  Internationale, 
and  how  does  it  propose  to  '  rectify  this  wrong  and  provide 
for  the  future  ?  '  " 

"  The  Internationale  is  essentially  and  purely  a  WORKING- 
MEN'S  Association.  It  has  now  more  than  four  millions  of 
active  members ;  but  all  the  working-classes,  that  is,  all  the 
producing  classes,  of  all  countries,  are,  and  must  be,  con 
sciously  or  unconsciously,  with  us  in  sentiment.  The  French 
workirigmen  are  only  the  advanced  guard  of  the  modern. 
Proletariate.  Class-rule  can  no  longer  disguise  itself  under 
a  national  uniform.  When,  after  the  late  great  war  between 
France  and  Prussia,  the  National  Governments  of  the  con 
queror  and  the  conquered  fraternized  for  the  common  mas 
sacre  of  the  workingmen,  they  demonstrated  to  the  whole 
world  what  was  already  clearly  understood  by  the  Inter 
nationale,  namely:  That  the- National  Governments  of  all 
countries  are  one  as  ayainst  the  J^roletariate  ;  that  they  are 
ever  ready  to  ignore  for  the  time  their  own  differences,  and 
to  unite  in  crushing,  by  wholesale  massacre  if  possible,  every 


PEACH-TREE.  269 

effort  of  the  working-class  to  break  the  chains  of  that  slavery 
which  has  reduced  it  to  starvation  and  almost  to  despair. 
Now,  the  Internationale  is  a  counter-organization  of  labor 
against  the  cosmopolitan  conspiracy  of  capital.  But  how 
does  the  Internationale  propose  to  free  society  from  the  con 
fessedly  frightful  evils  of  our  present  system  of  civilization? 
The  Internationale  has  seized  the  idea  that  that  system  is 
itself  the  necessary  parent  of  these  evils ;  the  Internationale 
means  to  crush  it ;  especially  does  it  mean  to  destroy  it  in 
its  economical  and  political  aspects.  Does  the  Internationale 
mean  to  abolish  property  ?  No ;  but  it  does  mean  to  abolish 
that  class-property  which  makes  the  labor  of  the  many  the 
wealth  of  the  few.  The  Internationale  means  to  destroy 
utterly  the  wage-system  of  labor,  for  that  system  is  the  im 
mediate  cause  of  nearly  all  our  woes ;  this  wage-system,  I 
repeat,  whose  wretched  delusions  and  prostitute  realities 
have  long  since  been  unmasked  to  all  who  do  not  wilfully 
close  their  eyes  to  the  truth,  the  Internationale  has  resolved  to 
abolish  from  the  face  of  the  earth — and  it  will  do  what  it  has 
resolved  to  do.  This  wage-system,  or  capitalist  system,  the 
Internationale  means  to  supersede  with  a  system  of  co-opera 
tive  production,  in  which  every  producer  shall  receive  the 
whole  of  what  he  produces.  It  means  for  co-operative 
societies  to  take  under  their  own  control  the  producing  ener 
gies  of  the  country,  and  thus  not  only  put  a  stop  to  those 
periodic  convulsions  incident  to  the  capitalist  system,  but 
so  direct  and  regulate  production  as  that  every  producer 
shall  get  all  that  he  produces  and  no  more,  and  so  that  not  a 
single  energy  or  capacity  to  work  shall  ever  be  involuntarily 
idle.  This  is  the  great  work  the  Internationale  has  resolved 
to  accomplish.  All  other  issues  are  subordinate;  many  of 
them  different  in  different  countries ;  and  they  all  group 
themselves  about  this  as  a  centre.  The  Internationale  does 


270  ^A  TEA. 

not  propose  to  accomplish  its  work  in  a  day.  Nor  has  it 
any  ready-made  Utopias  to  introduce  par  decret  du  peuple. 
But  it  will  accomplish  its  work,  though  it  may  be,  doubtless 
will  be,  after  long  and  severe  struggles,  transforming  circum 
stances  and  men.  It  is  known  to  all  the  world,  including 
even  conservatives — who  always  stand  with  their  back  to  the 
future — that  our  present  system  of  civilization  is  surely 
doomed.  Corruption  has  seized  upon  its  vitals  and  riots 
in  all  its  members.  The  Internationale  has  resolved  to  has 
ten  its  collapse,  to  sweep  the  rubbish  from  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  to  erect  another  structure  in  its  stead ;  not  a  per 
manent  one,  perhaps,  or  rather,  certainly  not  a  permanent 
one,  but  one  in  which  every  member  of  the  human  family 
shall  find  a  home  and  the  possibility  of  at  least  moderate 
comfort.  Meanwhile,  in  the  full  consciousness  of  its  historic 
mission,  and  with  the  heroic  resolve  to  accomplish  it,  the 
Internationale  can  well  afi'ord  to  smile  at  the  pitiful  slanders 
and  coarse  invective  of  its  enemies." 

"  But  what  of  the  strictly  political  aspect  of  the  question  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Brooke. 

"  I  will  answer  you  in  the  words  of  the  famous  Central 
Committee  :  '  The  Proletaires  of  Paris,  amidst  the  failures 
and  treasons  of  the  ruling  classes,  have  understood  that  the 
hour  has  struck  for  them  to  save  the  situation  by  taking  into 
their  own  hands  the  direction  of  public  affairs.  They  have 
understood  that  it  is  their  imperious  duty  and  their  absolute 
right  to  render  themselves  masters  of  their  own  destinies,  by 
seizing  upon  the  governmental  power.'  The  Internationale 
means  to  establish  a  government  of  the  people  by  the  people. 
It  will  not  be  afraid  of  giving  great  power  to  the  government, 
because  the  people  will  be  the  gcrvernment  itself.  The  Inter 
nationale  desires  such  a  government  as  that  of  the  Commune 
of  Paris — the  most  perfect  that  ever  existed,  the  prototype 


PEACH-TREE.  271 

of  the  ideal  government  of  the  future.  When  the  smoke  and 
clouds  of  prejudice  and  slander  shall  be  cleared  away,  then 
will  be  seen  the  true  Commune  of  Paris ;  and  coming  ages 
shall  vie  with  each  other  in  erecting  monuments  to  its  mar 
tyrs.  Paris  shall  be  seen  as  it  was :  {  working,  thinking, 
fighting,  bleeding  Paris — almost  forgetful,  in  its  incubation 
of  a  new  society,  of  the  cannibals  at  its  gates — radiant  in  the 
enthusiasm  of  its  historic  initiative  !  '  " 


272  <?A   IKA. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before." — CAMPBELL, 

CLARENCE  HALL'S  affairs  were  in  a  bad  way.  His  wife 
never  inquired  concerning  his  business.  She  had  not  the 
slightest  notion  whether  it  was  prosperous,  or  on  the  brink 
of  ruin.  True,  he  was  in  great  need  of  sympathy,  and  once 
or  twice  he  had  ventured  to  seek  it  from  his  wife ;  b\it  he 
met  with  such  a  resigned  and  confiding  trust  in  his  own  om 
nipotence  as  at  first  to  startle  him,  and  then  set  him  to 
thinking  whether  he  had  not  been  mistaken  in  some  of  his 
notions  about  "  complements."  At  first  he  tried  hard  to  de 
ceive  himself ;  but  no  man  in  such  case  ever  yet  succeeded. 
Their  opinions  never  clashed ;  they  never  disagreed  about 
anything.  She  never  said  to  him,  "  I  would  do  this,"  or, 
"  I  think  I  would  have  done  that."  Sometimes  Hall  thought 
it  would  be  a  relief  even  to  hear  one  poor  old  "  I  told  you 
so."  He  began  to  feel  utterly  lonely.  No  man  feels  so  be 
fore  he  is  married.  It  is  only  afterwards,  and  when  he  is 
startled  to  find  that  between  himself  and. his  wife  there  is  no 
companionship  at  all.  Mrs.  Hall  was  not  lonely ;  her  hus 
band  kissed  her  every  day  when  he  left  home,  and  when  he 
returned.  He  allowed  her  to  buy  whatever  she  wished.  She 
had  no  idea  that  her  husband  was  miserable.  She  had  not, 
as  he  was  continually  afraid  she  would  do,  perceived  his  rest 
lessness.  One  night,  while  sitting  at  the  supper-table,  they 
'were  startled  by  the  alarrn-bettr  Hall  walked  to  the  door 
and  looked  out.  There  was  a  great  6re,  apparently  just 
•\vhcre  his  office  was.  His  book,  on  which  he  had  spent  so 


PEACH-TREE.  273 

much  labor,  and  from  which  he  expected  money  to  help  him 
out  of  his  present  embarrassments,  lacked  only  a  few  pages 
of  being  finished,  and  was  locked  up  in  a  desk  in  his  office. 
He  uttered  a  cry  of  pain  ;  and  leaping  to  the  ground,  fairly 
flew  along  the  streets  in  the  direction  of  the  fire.  He  was 
too  late ;  the  building  was  already  completely  wrapped  in 
flames.  Dumb  with  despair,  he  stood  with  arms  folded  upon 
his  breast,  and  the  flames  glaring  upon  his  face,  and  saw  the 
whole  consumed.  Furniture,  library,  papers,  manuscript 
— all  gone  !  And  when  he  made  his  way  back  home  and  told 
his  wife  what  had  happened,  she  only  asked  where  he  would 
take,  another  office  !  He  thought  that  his  capacity  to  be 
astonished  at  his  wife's  indifference  was  long  since  exhausted ; 
but  now  he  stared  at  her  a  mingled  look  of  curiosity,  aston 
ishment,  and  despair.  He  turned  away,  and  Mrs.  Hall  kiss 
ed  her  baby,  exclaiming,  "  Poor  baby  !  papa's  office  burnt." 
I  cannot  give  any  conversations  between  Clarence  Hall  and 
his  wife  at  this  period.  There  were  none.  He  was  now 
utterly  ruined  ;  and  his  wife  knew  nothing  of  it.  For  some 
time  his  creditors  had  been  pressing  him ;  and  it  was  with 
the  greatest  difficulty,  and  by  making  the  most  confident 
promises,  that  he  had  succeeded  in  putting  them  off  so  long. 
Meanwhile  he  had  worked  desperately  upon  his  book  ;  always 
going  back  to  his  office  after  supper,  and  frequently  working 
all  night,  and  till  breakfast  next  morning.  His  wife's  head 
aches  had  also  of  late  grown  alarmingly  frequent,  and  she  was 
getting  paler  and  more  feeble.  Hall^was  occasionally  com 
pelled  to  stay  at  home  on  this  account ;  and  sometimes  his 
clients  called  at  his  office  and  found  him  away.  From  this 
cause,  as  well  as  from  the  almost  constant  attention  he  gave 
to  his  book,  his  biisiness  was  sometimes  neglected ;  and  his 
practice,  instead  of  growing,  had  really  diminished.  He 

knew  that  his  creditors  would  now  come  down  upon  him. 
12* 


274  £A   IRA. 

Let  a  man  be  crippled  by  misfortune,  he  thcnight,  and,  like  a 
wounded  animal,  he  is  fallen  upon  by  the  pack  and  devoured. 
He  knew  of  no  one  upon  whom  he  could  call  for  a  loan,  even 
if  he  had  had  any  prospect  whatever  of  soon,  or  ever,  being 
able  to  replace  it.  His  father-in-law  was  quite  out  of  the 
question.  Indeed,  Mr.  Dealing's  business  was  itself  in  almost 
as  desperate  a  condition  as  his  son-in-law's.  His  elegant 
residence  on  Peach-tree  had  more  than  once  been  levied  on 
and  advertised  for  sale.  But  by  shrewd  management  on  the 
part  of  his  lawyers,  by  "  taking  the  homestead,"  transferring, 
and  putting  in  claims  to  what  the  homestead  coiild  not  be 
made  to  cover,  his  creditors  had  up  to  this  time  been  kept  at 
bay.  But  they  continued  to  worry  him  ;  and  it  was  with  the 
utmost  difficulty  he  could  make  enough  to  keep  along,  and 
pay  his  lawyers'  fees.  Only  a  short  while  before  the  burn 
ing  of  Hall's  office  Mr.  Dealing  had  been  to  him  and 
offered  to  "  take  all  the  money  he  had  to  spare,  at  good 
interest." 

"  My  afl'airs,"  said  Mr.  Dearing,  "  are  temporarily  embar 
rassed  ;  and  as  I  suppose  you  have  some  money  to  spare,  I 
thought  I  would  propose  to  take  it  and  pay  you  the  interest 
that  I  should  otherwise  have  to  pay  the  bank."  His  son-in- 
law  assured  him  that  he  had  no  money  on  hand. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Dearing,  "  I  was  not  aware  that  you  had 
made  any  investment ;  I  supposed  your  money  was  idle  in 
the  bank." 

"  I  have  not  made  any  investment,  nor  have  I  any  money 
idle  in  the  bank  either,"  answered  Hall,  a  little  nettled  ; 
not  knowing  what  a  complete  delusion  his  father-in-law  WHS 
under  concerning  his  affairs. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter ;  it  doesn't  matter  at  all,"  said 
Mr.  Dearing,  a  little  hurt  in  turn,  that  his  own  son-in-law 
should  refuse  to  lend  him  money  ;  "  I  only  thought  that  as 


PEACH-TREE.  275 

you  had  it  to  spare,  and  as  I  had  to  pay  the  interest  anyhow, 
I  might  as  well  pay  it  to  you  as  anybody." 

"  You  speak,  sir,  as  if  you  doubted  the  truth  of  what  I 
say,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  no  money,  either  in  the 
bank  or  elsewhere." 

"  I  think,  sir,  you  need  scarcely  grow  angry  about  the 
matter.  You  say  you  have  made  no  investment ;  what  have 
you  done  with  your  money  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dearing,  bhintly 
enough. 

"  What  have  I  done  with  my  money  !  Why,  spent  it  upon 
my  family — every  cent  of  it,  and  gone  in  debt  besides." 

"  Spent  it  upon  your  family — spent  it  upon  your  family, 
and  in  debt,"  said  the  father-in-law,  now  thoroughly  aston 
ished  and  beginning  to  be  frightened  as  the  truth  vaguely 
dawned  upon  him. 

"  Yes,  spent  it  upon  my  family,  and  in  debt." 

"  I  understood — the  general  impression — can  I  have  been 
mistaken  in  supposing — that  your  practice  alone  amounted  to 
at  least  several  thousand  dollars  ?  " 

"  Several  thousand  dollars !  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you 
that  it  scarcely  amounted  to  so  many  hundreds  ?  " 

Mr.  Dearing  was  struck  dumb  with  astonishment  and  hor 
ror.  He  had  supposed  that  Hall's  practice  amounted  to  about 
six  thousand  dollars ;  and  when  Hall  said  that  he  had  spent  it 
all  on  his  family,  he  began  to  think  that  possibly  he  was  mis 
taken,  and  then  to  rapidly  consider  whether  it  was  possible  for 
him  to  have  been  mistaken  by  half.  But  an  idea  struck  him. 

"  Ah,  you  say,  suppose  you  were  to  say  so  and  so.  You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  your  income  actually  is  less  than,  at 
least,  three  thousand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  mean  to  say  that  it  is  less  than  a  fourth 
of  it." 

"  Good  God  !     If  I  had  known  this—" 


276  (?A    IRA. 

"What?-  I  suppose  you  will  say  your  daughter  should 
not  have  married  me  !  " 

"  You  deceived  me,  sir ;  you  acted  dishonorably,  sir ;  you 

."  And  Mr.  Dearing  was  going  on  in  a  loud  and  angry 

tone,  when  he  saw  Bramlette  approaching  the  door,  and 
ceased  ;  but  Bramlette,  seeing  Hall's  father-in-law,  and  sup 
posing  that  they -might  be  on  private  matters,  passed  on  to 
another  door.  Mr.  Dearing  checked  himself  instantly;  for 
one  of  the  cardinal  rules  of  good  society  in  those  parts  was, 
that  family  quarrels,  of  which  there  were  a  great  many, 
must  be  kept  inside  the  family.  But  when  Bramlette  had 
passed  on,  Mr.  Dearing  resumed,  in  a  low,  sneering  tone : 

"  May  I  ask  how  much  it  is  exactly  f  " 

"  You  may,  if  you  wish,  ask  till  doomsday,"  replied  Cla 
rence  Hall,  with  the  utmost  contempt ;  and  turning  on  his 
heel,  left  the  office. 

Whence  came  this  quarrel  between  Clarence  Hall  and  his 
father-in-law  ?  Was  it  providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  or 
fate?  The  very  next  day  after  his  great  misfortune,  the 
officer  came,  in  the  morning,  with  a  summons  from  one  of  his 
creditors,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  returned  with  two  others, 
for  the  creditors  were  watching  each  other,  and  each  one  was 
afraid  that  the  others  would  get  ahead  of  him.  Clarence  Hall 
had  already  been  forced  to  give  his  notes  in  place  of  his  ac 
counts,  and  the  notes  were  made  small  enough  to  be  sued  in  the 
justice  courts;  so  that  the  cases  could  be  trie"d  in  ten  days, 
and  in  ten  more  the  property  levied  on  be  exposed  to  sale. 
Something  rmist  be  done,  and  that  without  delay.  To  begin 
with,  the  comfortable  establishment  on  Peach-tree  must  be 
given  up ;  and  afterwards  all  expenses  must  be  reduced  in 
every  possible  manner.  Clai'ence  Hall  resolved  upon  this 
course,  and  he  was  glad  that  he  could  do  so  without  consulting 
the  Dealings.  He  was  even  glad  that  he  had  quarrelled  with 


PEACH-TEKE.  277 

his  father-in-law,  for  had  it  not  been  for  that  quarrel,  he 
would  feel  bound  to  consult  him  on  so  important  a  matter, 
and  he  knew  that  Mr.  Dearing  would  strongly  oppose  such  a 
course.  It  was  against  his  own  judgment  that  he  had  at  first 
taken  this  establishment,  but  his  wife's  family  would  not 
listen  to  anything  else  ;  and  besides,  he  was  not  hard  to  per 
suade  to  consent  to  anything  then  that  he  thought  would 
gratify  his  wife  in  the  smallest  particular.  That- was  his  day 
of  high  hopes  and  generous  ambition  ;  the  future  stretched 
out  before  him  like  a  far-reaching  elysian  field.  The  high 
and  dangerous  mountains  before  him  sank  in  his  lofty  view 
to  mere  hillocks,  and  the  calcined  cliffs  that  told  of  upheaval 
and  ruin  were  hid  beneath  the  rich  foliage  of  fancy.  Rush 
ing  and  turgid  streams  became  babbling  brooks,  pleasant  to 
the  ear ;  and  the  treacherous  marsh  was  hid  beneath  the 
poetic  leaves  of  Vallombrosa.  What  mattered  a  few  hundred 
dollars  !  Was  the  spirit  of  love  and  hope  to  be  bounded  in  by 
the  low  horizon  of  dollars  and  cents  !  Suppose  he  should  not 
even  be  as  fortunate  as  he  thought  he  might  safely  calculate 
upon  ;  nay,  suppose,  in  the  inscrutable  dealings  of  Providence, 
some  slight  misfortunes  and  reverses  should  overtake  him  ? 
Should  he  not  only  strive  the  harder,  and  rise  superior  to  fate  ? 
Was  not  the  accomplishment  of  any  design  only  the  measure  of 
the  effort  required  ?  And  who  should  set  limits  to  the  effort 
of  the  human  mind  ?  Was  it  not  the  highest  glory  of  god-like 
minds  to  conquer  fate  itself?  But  it  was  not  often  in  those 
days  that  Clarence  Hall  found  himself  in  this  mood,  and 
asking  these  qtiestions.  It  was  only  in  those  moments  when 
highest  enthusiasm  succeeds  to  deepest  reflection,  as  the 
loftiest  mountains  ever  rise  beside  the  sublimest  depths  of  the 
ocean.  It  was  not  often ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  Clarence  Hall, 
from  a  happy  temperament,  happy  surroundings,  and  a  really 
brilliant  prospect,  could  not  but  dwell  mostly  upon  the  more 


278  gA  TRA. 

pleasing,  if  less  elevating  picture  of  life.  Muiiy  a  time  he 
had  thanked  God  that  it  was  so  well  with  him.  He  had 
started  even  with  the  world,  free  from  the  depressions  of 
poverty  on  the  one  hand,  and  from  the  temptations  of  indul 
gent  riches  on  the  other.  If,  upon  leaving  the  University, 
he  found  himself  thrown  wholly  upon  his  own  resources,  and 
had  even  felt  a  little  pinched  for  a  time,  it  was  just  enough 
to  whet  the  edge  of  endeavor,  and  he  could  not  have  wished 
it  otherwise.  If  at  one  time  he  had  thought  that  he  was  not 
getting  along  so  briskly  as  he  could  wish  and  had  hoped ;  if 
indeed  he  had  begun  to  grow  even  a  little  restless,  he  was 
soon  brought  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  "  all  for  the  best." 
But  when  he  had  married  !  then  indeed  should  his  career 
truly  begin.  Clarence  Hall  was  not  an  enthusiast ;  he  did 
not  set  his  mark  too  high ;  he  did  not  indulge  in  any  wild 
fancies.  Still  his  hopes  were  high.  He  knew  that  Provi 
dence  had  given  him  the  very,  woman  that  even  his  most 
sober  speculative  belief  told  him  ought  to  be  his  wife — the 
"  complement "  of  his  own  nature.  He  was  thankful  ;  he  was 
hopeful ;  his  better  judgment  told  him  to  "  keep  even  with  the 
world  ;  "  but  his  wife's  family  thought  he  must  of  course  take 
a  comfortable  home,  at  least  in  an  aristocratic  'quarter — that 
is,  the  most  nearly  aristocratic  in  this  essentially  tumble-down 
democratic  capital.  A  few  hundred  dollars  was  not  much,  to 
be  sure,  and  his  imagination  expanded  to  meet  the  occasion. 
Thus  it  was  that  Clai-ence  Hall  had  got  "  behind  "  in  the  very 
beginning ;  and,  like  all  other  people  that  ever  did  start  so, 
or  ever  will  start  so,  he  got  further  and  further  "behind  "  every 
day.  Once  since  they  had  been  married  Clarence  Hall  had 
had  an  opportunity  of  giving  up  the  house.  He  had  taken 
it  until  October,  the  month  in-_which  real-estate  men  dis 
pose  of  property  for  the  year.  He  determined  to  leave  the 
house,  and  adopt  his  original  plan  of  taking  a  neat  little  cot- 


PEACH-TREE.  279 

tage  elsewhere.  But,  as  we  have  seen,  his  wife's  babies — or, 
according  to  the  statute,  his  babies,  his  poor  wife  being  only 
their  mother — were  born  on  the  night  of  the  second  of  Sep 
tember  at  nine  o'clock,  and  consequently  on  the  first  day  of 
October  were  less  than  one  month  old,  and  their  mother,  not 
being  an  Irishwoman,  was  not  yet  well ;  all  of  which,  to  be 
sure,  was  a  difficulty  which  Clarence  Hall,  if  he  had  only 
exercised  a  little  foresight  some  nine  months  before,  could, 
though  perhaps,  as  it  were,  with  some  slight  inconvenience 
to  himself  and  family,  have  put  off  at  least  a  month.  But 
we  are  not  here  to  talk  about  what  might  have  been  ;  nothing 
could  be  more  unprofitable.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  quarrel 
with  Clarence  Hall,  or  to  make  wise  observations  on  what  he 
ought  to  have  done  ;  the  poor  man  has  quite  enough  to  trouble 
him.  And,  besides,  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
or  the  Emperor  of  Germany,  supposing  he  could  call  back  a 
ft-w  years,  or  any  other  man,  would  have  done  just  as  he  did. 
When  Clarence  Hall's  office  was  destroyed  by  fire  he  was 
left  without  a  dollar ;  and  when  he  was  sued  next  day,  he 
found  himself  without  credit  also.  He  had  not  a  single 
piece  of  furniture  for  fitting  up  a  new  office,  nor  a  single 
book.  And  yet  he  must  get  an  office  immediately.  He  had 
a  beautiful  and  valuable  watch ;  it  was  a  family  keepsake, 
and  he  would  not  part  with  it  under  any  considerations. 
He  tried  to  borrow  a  hundred  dollars  ;  but  "  money  was  very 
scarce,"  and  none  of  his  friends  had  any.  There  was  no 
other  chance ;  he  pawned  his  watch  for  a  little  more  than 
half  its  value  ;  of  course  he  would  redeem  it ;  he  would  not 
allow  his  watch  to  go  even  if  he  had  to  sell  anything  else  he 
had.  He  bought  a  few  pieces  of  ordinary  furniture,  a  few 
books,  and  fitted  him  up  another  office.  But  all  of  his 
papers  had  been  burned,  and  this  put  himself  and  his  clients 
to  much  inconvenience ;  and  though  no  man  was  certainly  so 


280  £ 

big  a  fool  as  to  suppose  that  he  was  at  all  to  blaine  for  the  loss 
and  inconvenience,  yet  some  two  or  three  of  his  clients  were 
dissatisfied,  and  took  away  their  business.  He  was  now  also 
compelled  to  be  at  home  frequently  ;  his  wife  had  grown  paler, 
and  kept  her  bed  at  least  a  third  of  her  time.  His  mother- 
in-law  came  frequently  to  see  them,  and  when  her  son-in-law 
was  present  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  making  cutting 
remarks.  But  there  was  one  consolation:  he  had  quarrelled 
with  his  father-in-law,  and  that  obviated  the  necessity  of 
consulting  him  upon  the  contemplated  change.  Clarence 
Hall  almost  thought  this  quarrel  a  special  providence ;  and  I 
doubt  not  the  pious  reader  has  also  come  to  the  same  conclu 
sion.  But  the  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  save  his  furni 
ture  from  immediate  sale.  If  he  could  only  get  it  put  oif  to 
the  Superior  Court,  possibly  by  that  time  he  might  be  able 
to  make  "  some  arrangement."  But  how  to  put  it  off — that 
was  the  question.  To  be  sure,  he  could  "  take  the  homestead." 
But  he  shrank  from  that  as  being  unjust ;  he  even  thought  it 
dishonorable ;  for  these  notes  on  which  he  was  sued  were  for 
the  purchase-money  of  this  very  furniture  ;  and  he  thought  it 
would  be  little  if  any  better  than  swindling.  So  it  went  on 
till  the  day  before  the  furniture  was  to  be  sold. 

When  Clarence  Hall  went  home  that  day  to  dinner,  he 
found  his  wife  frightened,  trembling.  Her  mother  had  seen 
one  of  the  printed  notices  of  the  sale,  and  had  brought  it  to 
her.  Her  nerves  were  already  weak.  She  was  alarmed, 
and  took  to  her  bed.  What  a  man  will  not  do  on  his  own 
account,  he  will  frequently  do  for  his  family.  Clarence  Hall 
felt  that  he  could  bo  sold  out,  and  turned  moneyless  and 
creditless  upon  the  world.  But  there  was  his  baby  ;  there 
was  his  sick  wife.  And,  after,  all,  it  would  not  always  be 
thus  ;  his  affairs  would  take  a  turn  for  the  better  some  time ; 
and  then  he  could  pay  all  he  owed ;  and  he  mentally  resolved 


PEACH-TKEE.  231 

to  pay  a  high  interest.  He  applied  for  "  the  homestead."  But 
that  could  not  be  passed  upon  immediately.  It  was  necessary 
that  his  wife  put  in  a  "  claim  "  to  the  property.  He  went 
and  brought  in  an  officer ;  and  his  wife  signed  her  name  to 
the  claim.  Then  there  was  cost  to  pay — several  dollars.  He 
had  110  money  for  that.  He  was  infinitely  troubled.  He 
met  Fred  Van  Comer  on  the  street ;  he  knew  that  Fred  was 
working  for  a  salary  ;  but  he  thought  he  might  have  as  much 
as  he  wanted ;  besides,  he  only  wanted  it  "  for  a  few  days." 
Yes ;  Fred  had  ten  dollars  ;  but  it  was  in  his  room.  He  had 
to  go  by  the  printing-office  first ;  but  he  would  bring  it  to 
Hall's  office  in  the  course  of  an  hour.  Now  that  was  a 
pious  lie  of  Fred's.  He  had  not  a  dollar  in  the  world  ;  not 
even  a  quarter  to  play  a  game  of  billiards  with.  Although 
he  was  not  aware  of  the  whole  truth,  he  knew  that  Hall  was 
hard  run,  and  thought  that  possibly  he  might  be  in  urgent 
need  of  even  a  few  dollars — as  indeed  he  was.  So  he  told 
him  he  had  the  money  in  his  room ;  resolving  to  go  to 
Bramlette,  whom  he  had  seen  with  twenty  dollars  that  very 
.morning.  He  hastened  to  Bramlette's  room. 

"  Bramlette,  I  told  a  lie  just  now — I  said  I  had  ten  dollars 
in  my  room.  I  haven't  got  a  cent ;  and  unless  you  give  it 
me,  I  shall  tell  another ;  for  I  promised  to  have  it  at  a  cer 
tain  place  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Well,  well !  I  havn't  got  a  dollar  either." 

"  The  mischief !  what  did  you  do  with  that  twenty  dollars 
I  saw  you  with  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  had  just  got  it,  and  have  paid  my  board  with  it."  Fred 
spxin  out  of  the  room,  with  fingers  in  both  ears,  and  went 
sailing  down  the  street.  He  found  Mirabeau  Holmes,  got 
the  money,  and  carried  it  to  Hall's  office. 

The  quarrel  between  Hall  and  his  father- iii-law  had  grown 
worse ;  and  Hall  vowed  that  neither  he  nor  any  of  his 


282  gA  IRA. 

family  should  ever  go  to  Mr.  Dealing's  again.  Hall  had 
fully  determined  to  give  up  their  house  on  Peach-tree.  But 
when  the  time  came,  his  wife,  who  had  continued  to  grow 
feebler,  was  very  weak  and  nervous.  The  physician  said  it 
would  not  be  safe  to  move  her  so  far ;  her  nervous  constitu 
tion  might  be  dangerously  affected  by  the  shock.  Alas  ! 
for  that  quarrel  with  his  father-in-law  !  She  might  else  be 
taken  thither,  which  was  just  across  the  street,  till  everything 
was  done.  Moreover,  his  wife  herself  made  the  first  objec 
tion  she  had  ever  made  to  anything :  she  was  too  weak  to 
move.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  take  the  house  again, 
and  it  could  not  be  taken  for  less  than  a  year.  Alas,  alas  ! 
Clarence  Hall !  there  are  no  special  providences  in  this  world  ! 

"  How  is  it,"  said  Robert  Malcomb  to  Mirabeau  one 
evening  at  Mrs.  Robert's  tea-table,  "  that  your  notions  have, 
in  so  short  a  time,  been  completely  revolutionized  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Descartes  says  about  his  pursuit 
of  truth  ?  '  When  I  set  forth  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,'  says 
he,  '  I  found  it  necessary  to  reject  everything  that  I  had 
hitherto  received,  and  pluck  out  all  of  my  old  opinions,  in 
order  that  I  might  lay  the  foundation  of  them  afresh ; 
believing  that  by  this  means  I  should  the  more  easily  accom 
plish  the  great  scheme  of  my  life,  than  by  building  on  an 
old  basis,  and  supporting  myself  by  principles  which  I  had 
learned  in  my  youth,  without  examining  if  they  were  really 
true.'  It  is  not  presumption  in  me  to  say  that  I  have  found 
it  necessary  to  do  exactly  what  Descartes  did  ;  not  presump 
tion,  because  this  is  the  identical  course  that  must  be  taken 
by  every  mind  in  the  earnest  pursuit  of  the  truth  ;  and  by  the 
smallest  not  less  than  by  the  greatest." 

"  But  it  does  not  follow  that  in  this  process  you  must 
necessarily  find  all  your  old  beliefs  to  have  been  false," 
said  Robert. 


PEACH-TREE.  283 

"  I  sliould  rather  think  that  one  brought  up  in  a  Christian 
country,  with  the  lights  of  education  and  religion  before  him, 
would  find  most  of  his  beliefs  to  be  true,  "  said  Mrs.  Robert. 

"  I  can  answer  for  myself :  to  say  nothing  of  the  religious 
dogmas  which  I  had  been  taught  to  accept  not  only  without 
examination  but  on  the  vaguest  possible  hearsay,  it  might  be 
thought  that  at  least  one's  fundamental  political  belief, 
acquired  in  such  a  republic  as  this,  should  contain  a  large 
portion  of  truth.  For  one,  I  found  my  own  to  be  almost 
wholly  false,  warp  and  woof,  with  scarcely  here  and  there  a 
thread  of  truth.  Delescluze  said  to  me  on  that  very  morning 
that  he  went,  in  obedience  to  his  promises,  to  seek  his  death 
among  the  people — '  Yours  is  a  great  country ;  the  grand 
hope  of  the  world  is  in  your  people ;  Humanity  looks  to  you 
for  the  first  of  its  final  triumphs,' "  said  Mirabeau. 

"  I  do  not  claim,"  said  Robert,  "  to  be  up  in  French  poli 
tics.  Still  I  have  often  seen  and  heard  the  expression 
'  triumph  of  Humanity  ; '  but  to  me,  I  must  say,  it  sounds 
vaguely  enough.  What  did  Delescluze  mean  by  it  ?  or  what 
do  you  mean  by  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  admitted  on  all  hands,"  answei'ed  Mirabeau,  "  that 
the  great  calamity  and  opprobrium  of  civilization  is,  that 
while  countries  have  advanced  in  power  and  wealth,  while 
they  have  grown  rich  in  all  manner  of  increase,  in  all  man 
ner  of  comfort  and  luxury,  nine-tenths  of  the  people  of  those 
countries  are  still  condemned  to  the  lowest  battle  of  animal 
man — the  battle  with  starvation.  Nine-tenths  of  the  human 
family,  in  every  country  but  our  own — and  under  the  same 
system  the  same  results  must  soon  follow  here — exist  in  a 
state  of  struggle  and  wretchedness  which  makes  existence, 
instead  of  a  boon,  almost  an  insupportable  burden.  And  what 
is  most  fearful  of  all  is,  that  this  condition  is  growing  worse 
year  by  year ;  it  is  infinitely  worse  than  it  was  a  century 


284  9A  IEA- 

and  a  half  ago,  according  to  the  admission  even  of  the  high 
est  '  conservative '  authorities,  such  as  the  writers  in  the 
London  Quarterly." 

"  But  has  not  this  wretchedness  been  clearly  proved,  or  at 
least  a  large  portion  of  it,  to  be  traceable  to  their  own  im 
providence,  ignorance,  insobriety,  and  unthrift  ?  " 

"  No,  not  a  large  portion  of  it.  A  small  portion  is  doubt 
less  traceable  hither.  But  how  does  this  better  the  case  ?  It 
reminds  one  of  the  absurd  old  theological  dogma  of  predesti 
nation — '  you  can  and  you  can't ;  you  shall  and  you  shan't.' 
This  very  ignorance  and  unthrift  is  due  to  something! 
What  ?  It  is  a  necessity  of  their  condition  !  In  point  of  fact, 
though,  a  very,  very  small  portion  of  this  appalling  wretched 
ness  is  due  to  the  ignorance  and  unthrift  of  the  people  them 
selves.  True,  it  may  be  attributable  to  their  ignorance, 
in  a  sense ;  but  a  very  different  sense  from  that  under 
stood  by  tones  and  conservatives :  it  is  due  to  their  igno 
rance  in  this,  that  being  ignorant  of  their  power,  they  do 
not  rise  up  and  crush  the  system  that  necessitates  their 
condition." 

"  But  how,"  asked  Mrs.  Robert,  with  the  practicality  of 
the  sex,  "  is  all  this  to  be  rectified  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  how  ?  "  added  Robert.  "  I  suppose  you  would 
call  this  a  '  triumph  of  Humanity.'  But  this  how  ?  is  it 
not  one  of  the  '  enigmas  of  life  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes ;  it  is  one  of  the  '  enigmas  of  life '  to  those  who, 
instead  of  coming  out  into  the  light  of  reason  and  truth, 
grope  among  the  gloomy  cells  of  superstition  and  barbarism ; 
to  those  who  think  it  better  that  millions  of  human  beings 
should  die  in  wretchedness,  in  obedience  to  what  a  barbarous 
age  may  have  taught  to  be~«,n  abstract  right,  than  even  to 
inquire  whether  that  abstract  right  be  a  right  at  all  or  not. 
As  to  this  How  ?  for  Europe  I  know  of  but  one  plan ;  the 


PEACH-TREE.  285 

ialf-way  measures  of  Mill  and  Odger  will  not  do — they  do 
not  meet  the  case ;  the  case  is  desperate,  and  the  remedy 
must  be  deep  and  comprehensive.  Let  some  prophet  rise  up 
id  say  to  the  people,  and  let  them  be  taught  to  understand 

Ed  obey  him  :  '  The  world  has  plenty,  and  to  spare.  Be- 
Id  on  every  side  enough  for  the  whole  human  race  !  But 
>n  every  side  the  people  dies  of  hunger  and  wretchedness ! 
Jy  an  unjust  system,  all  comforts,  arid  all  luxuries,  have  been 
iven  to  one-tenth  of  the  human  race.  They  cannot  consume 
the  comforts.  The  luxuries  waste  before  their  eyes  !  And 
et  there  is  enough  for  all  !  enough,  and  to  spare  !  Let  the 
ople  rise  tip  and  crush  the  system  which  oppresses  it  and 
uces  it  to  despair.  The  people  starves  !  And  yet  it  dare 
not  reach  forth  its  hand  for  the  bread  that  rots  within  its 
grasp  !  Down  with  the  system  !  Let. property  be  universal 
ized.'  And  this  is  precisely  what  will  be  done,  sooner  or 
later.  As  for  me,  I  have,  but  one  rule  of  right — the  good  of 
the  people.  When  the  people  starve,  and  that  too  from  no 
fault  of  their  own,  and  when  I  see  plenty  and  to  spare  all 
around  them,  I  confess  to  you  I  should  not  much  stop  to 
leisurely  read  and  metaphysically  consider  charters  and  law 
yers'  parchments." 

"  All  this  I  understand,"  said  Robert,  "  to  apply  to 
Europe.  What  of  our  own  country  ?  " 

"In  this  country  we  have  no  need 'yet  of  the  desperate 
remedy  already  necessary  for  Europe.  The  end  can,  I  be 
lieve,  be  accomplished  without  such  means.  But  one  thing 
is  certain,  if  it  is  to  be  done,  our  people  must  be  wiser  than 
they  have  been  in  the  past.  And  this  is  the  very  first  step 
to  be  taken :  our  Universities  must  be  largely  endowed  and 
tuition  made  free  in  all ;  the  classics  must  be  discarded,  and 
the  time  and  labor  hitherto  wasted  upon  them  be  given  to 
science  and  industry  ;  they  must  also  be  thrown  open  to  all, 


286  gA  IRA. 

without  distinction  of  sex  or  race.  We  must  also  have  a 
national  system  of  compulsory  education.  No  more  public 
lands  must  be  given  to  railroads ;  but  all  the  public  domain 
must  be  immediately  divided  out  among  all  our  people  who 
have  no  land  or  other  property,  in  trust  for  themselves  and 
their  children  for,  say,  three  hundred  years.  We  must  have 
a  law  prohibiting  any  man,  or  set  of  men,  from  operating 
any  manufactory  except  upon  the  co-operative  plan.  We 
must  have  universal  suffrage ;  capital  punishment  must  bo 
abolished  by  Congress — the  States  are  too  slow;  and  we 
must  have  a  prohibitory  liquor  law,  making  it  a  peniten 
tiary  offence,  if  need  be,  to  make  or  sell  it.  These  are  some 
of  the  things  that  ought  to  be  done  in  this  country ;  but  the 
most  important  of  all  is  to  have  a  national  system  of  com 
pulsory  education.  Knowledge,  above  all  things,  is  what 
the  people  need.  But  I  confess  to  you  I  have  little  hope 
of  politicians  doing  anything.  I  say  candidly  that  I  believe 
if  it  were  not  for  one  man  among  us  the  country  would  go 
to  pieces  ;  it  seems  to  me  that  he  alone  is  holding  it  together; 
and  that  man  is  General  Grant.  European  nations  have 
waged  fierce  wars  because  a  princess  of  one  declared  she 
could  wear  a  smaller  slipper  than  a  princess  of  the  other ; 
but  I  know  of  nothing  more  contemptible  than  the  endless 
and  senseless  quibblings  and  wranglings  of  our  politicians 
over  written  constitutions,  parchments,  and  law-books,  and 
almost  the  whole  of  it,  too,  relating  to  the  past.  *  We  have 
such  a  grand  mission — so  much  to  do  for  ourselves  and  our 
children,  and,  above  all,  so  much  to  do  for  Humanity  ;  and 
yet,  instead  of  coming  together  and  pushing  boldly  on  to  a 
common  destiny  in  a  great  caiise,  we  are  wasting- all  our  ener 
gies  in  wrangling  with,  defaming,  and  thwarting  each  other." 
As  they  left  the  table  and  went  into  the  parlor,  Robert 
could  not  but  feel  self-complacent  that  he  himself  had  long  ago 


PEACH-TBEE.  287 

predicted  that  Mirabeau  would  some  day  go  off  after  Rous 
seau  in  politics,  and  possibly  in  religion  too. 

Mr.  Brooke  was  not  only  pastor  of  the  wealthiest  Pi'esby- 
terian  church  in  the  city,  but  had  some  property  of  his  own. 
He  kept  a  carriage  and  horses.  Frequently  of  afternoons  he 
would  drive  out  with  "  the  girls,"  as  he  called  Miss  Brooke 
and  Emma,  and  it  might  have  been  observed  of  late  that  Mr. 
Brooke,  instead  of  driving  first  to  Mrs.  Harlan's  cottage  and 
leaving  Emma  there,  now  usually  returned  first  to  his  own 
home,  and,  depositing  Miss  Brooke,  rode  on  with  Emma 
alone  to  her  mother's.  Mr.  Brooke  always  went  in  a  mo 
ment  to  say  a  word  with  the  mother,  and  then  went  with 
the  daughter  into  the  flower-garden.  In  short,  Mr.  Brooke 
managed  to  be  with  Emma  a  considerable  portion  of  his 
spare  time.  Nor  was  this  wonderful  at  all.  Emma,  to  be 
sure,  was  now  really  a  young  lady,  but  she  was  never  any 
thing  to  Mr.  Brooke  but  a  child.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  Mr.  Brooke  liked  her ;  that  he  ever  found  pleasure  in 
her  company.  She  was  not  only  innocent,  confiding,  and  of 
the  most  gentle  and  sweet  disposition,  but  she  had  naturally 
a  good  mind,  and  that  it  was  well  cultured  was  due  in  con 
siderable  degree  to  Mr.  Brooke  himself.  It  is  needless  to 
add  that  she  reposed  in  Mr.  Brooke  the  fullest  trust ;  that 
she  looked  up  to  him  as  father,  friend,  teacher,  pastor — in 
deed,  almost  as  to  a  divinity.  But  Mr.  Brooke,  with  all  his 
learning  and  all  his  piety,  was  not  by  any  means  exalted 
above  human  weaknesses  and  human  passions.  His  wife,  as 
I  have  said,  was  an  invalid,  and  he  was  a  stout,  healthy  man, 
with  a  body  full  of  electricity,  and  warm,  red  blood.  His 
wife  certainly  could  not  live  always,  and  the  probability  was 
that  she  would  not  live  very  long.  Was  it  strange  that  Mr. 
Brooke  had  already  looked  upon  this  little  girl,  sweet  and 
luscious  as  a  perfumed  strawberry,  with  a  light  in  his 


288  gA  IRA. 

great  gi'ay  eyes  that  would  have  made  her  tremble  had  she 
known  its  true  meaning  ?  Allons  !  Maybe  Mr.  Brooke's 
invalid  wife  will  die ;  and  if  she  does  !  who  could  blame  Mr. 
Brooke  for  wanting  to  bite  this  berry?  Still,  Emma  dr;ir, 
thou  art  not  safe  from  harm.  Alf  Walton  may  come  back, 
and  even  the  light  in  thy  pastor's  eye  may  rise  to  a  con 
suming  heat  for  thy  innocence.  Yet,  one  can  hardly  see 
what  it  should  profit  anything  in  heaven  or  earth,  that  thy 
poor  little  life  be  ruined,  and  thy  heart  made  to  bleed.  And 

yet Allons !      God  protect  thee,  Emma  dear,  and  all 

good  spirits  shield  thee  with  their  wings. 

Was  there  ever  a  man  with  breeches  too  short  that  had  a 
warm,  full  heart  ?  Yes,  indeed  !  And  that  man  was  Na 
thaniel  Bramlette.  And  of  this  I  will  make  oath  this  second 
day  of  September,  year  of  the  Republic  ninety-seven,  before 
any  notary  in,  the  county.  And  I  would  do  the  very  same 
thing  if  he  had  a  thousand  buttons  on  his  shirt,  and  though 
his  jaw-bone  was  as  strong  as  an  anchor.  Poor  Bramlette  ! 
he  loved  Emma  Harlan.  Accursed  poverty  !  Accursed 
fate  !  Sometimes  he  would  go  to  Mrs.  Harlan's  and  stay 
for  two  hours,  saying  tender,  poetic  things ;  and  he  had 
already  been  inspired  to  write  several  poems,  two  of  which 
he  published  anonymously,  and  the  others  he  kept  in  his 
portfolio.  But  as  for  declaring  to  her  his  love,  or  proposing 
marriage,  why,  that  was  out  of  the  question.  And  yet,  many 
and  many  a  night  alone  in  his  room  did  he  lay  awake  think 
ing  of  the  future,  and  hoping  for  a  better  turn  in  his  affairs. 
But  the  years  were  creeping  on  ;  Bramlette  was  approaching 
thirty  ;  and  he  had  not  yet  done  anything.  His  notions  had 
always  crowded  each  other  outj  Think  of  marrying  ?  Why, 
it  was  hard  scuffling  to  make  enough  to  pay  his  weekly  board. 
But,  the  commonest  clerk  could  do  that.  Does  it  seem 
strange  that  in  such  a  country  as  this,  a  man  of  Bramlette'a 


PEACH-TREE.  289 

talents,  culture,  and  spotless  character,  and  with  an  ambition 
to  succeed,  should  with  the  utmost  difficulty  be  able  to  make 
his  board  ?  Probably  some  will  have  the  greatest  contempt 
for  him.  Probably  they  have  more  contempt  at  their  dis 
posal  than  brains  !  The  truth  is,  some  men  never  learn  the 
knack  of  "  getting  along  ;  "  and  Bramlette  was  one  of  them. 
He  had  not  failed  to  notice  with  pain,  when  his  attention 
was  called  to  it  by  Fred,  that  Clarence  Hall  seemed  to  be 
getting  on  badly  of  late,  and  they  correctly  divined  -the 
cause.  No  !  he  must  not  think  of  marriage,  or  love  either, 
if  he  could  help  it,  until  he  got  money.  Aye,  but  when 
would  that  be  ?  He  thought  once  that  he  would  have  had  a 
competency  by  now ;  but  he  was  scarcely  able  to  pay  his 
board.  A  little  while  ago  his  hopes  had  revived  when  he 
thought  of  publishing  his  book  ;  but  that  was  all  done  for 
now.  And  the  worst  symptom  of  all  with  this  man  was,  that 
his  self-confidence  was  fast  leaving  him.  Above  all  things, 
man,  believe  in  yourself.  On  the  evening  we  have  seen 
Mirabeau  and  Fred  at  his  room,  Bramlette  was  bluer  than  he 
had  ever  been.  Nor  did  he  even  know  what  he  should  have 
done  but  for  the  following  circumstance :  General  Clement 
was  a  special  friend  of  the  editor  of  the  New  Monthly,  just 
started.  This  noble  man,  ever  looking  for  an  opportunity  to 
do  good,  and  having  some  idea  of  Bramlette's  affairs,  came 
to  him  the  very  next  morning  and  advised  him  to  go  to  see 
the  editor.  The  good  General  preceded  him.  And  when 
Bramlette  called  that  afternoon,  though"  it  was  not  the  cus 
tom  of  the  editor  to  pay  for  articles,  he  at  once  engaged  to 
pay  for  Bramlette's  ;  and  he  never  knew  till  long  after  that 

an  exception  had  been  made  in  his  favor. 

13 


290 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  raeu, 
Which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune  ; 
Omitted,  all  the  voyage  of  their  life 
la  bound  in  shallows,  and  in  miseries." — JULIUS  CJESAB 

EVERYTHING  went  wrong  with  Clarence  Hall.  His  ex 
penses  grew  heavier  instead  of  lighter.  His  baby  was  sick 
all  the  summer,  and  his  wife  all  the  winter.  Do  what  he 
would,  he  could  not  enlarge  his  practice ;  and  he  could  1106 
get  the  money  even  for  what  he  did.  His  butcher's  and 
grocer's  bills  had  grown  to  a  considerable  amount.  He  had 
been  indulged  on  them  once  already,  by  agreeing  to  pay  a 
heavy  interest ;  and  they  would  fall  due  again  in  thirty  days. 
Clarence  Hall  was  uneasy  about  these  debts.  He  had  not 
the  money  to  pay  them ;  and  could  not  now  tell  where  he 
was  to  get  it.  He  had  calculated  confidently  upon  meeting 
these  bills  with  the  money  he  was  to  get  from  a  case  which 
he  was  so  sure  of  winning  that  he  had  conditioned  his  fee 
upon  the  issue.  Of  course,  he  could  make  his  fee  twice  as 
large  in  this  case  as  if  it  was  certain.  It  was  his  client's 
offer,  and  he  was  quick  to  accept  it.  For  the  law  was  clear 
— so  clear  that  there  could  not  be  any  dispute  about  it  at  all. 
True,  there  was  no  statute  exactly  covering  the  point ;  but 
in  Coke  upon  Lyttleton  it  was  laid  down  too  plainly  to  be 
mistaken.  Lest  there  should  be  some  mistake  about  his 
meaning,  the  learned  expositor  had  not  only  used  up  all  the 
English  words  which  came  within  ten  leagues  of  the  main 
one,  but  had  imported  large  batches  from  France  and  Rome. 
Of  course,  the  client  was  not  mistaken  about  what  he  could 


PEACH -TKEE.  291 

prove  on  the  trial !  Nevertheless,  the  case  went  against  him, 
and  Clarence  Hall  lost  his  fee.  And  what  made  the  matter 
particularly  aggravating  was,  that  the  fault  was  not  with  the 
petit  jury,  but  with  the  learned  judge.  Now,  Clarence  Hall 
had  time  and  again  said  that  there  was  not  the  slightest 
danger  from  that  quarter.  So  the  client  was  in  a  great  huff, 
utterly  unreasonable,  would  not  listen  to  any  proposition  to 
"  carry  the  case  up."  But  Clarence  Hall  knew  that  the  law 
was  on  his  side ;  the  best  lawyers  of  his  acquaintance  all 
agreed  that  the  judge's  charge  was  contrary  to  law.  He  re 
solved  to  pay  the  cost  and  carry  the  case  up  himself;  by  so 
doing  he  would  both  vindicate  his  judgment  and  secure  a 
considerable  fee,  which  latter,  as  we  know,  was  of  urgent 
consequence  to  him.  He  got  enough  money  to  pay  the  cost, 
carried  up  the  case,  and  lost  it.  Thus  had  he  made  his  cal 
culations,  and  had  been  disappointed ;  and  the  bills  afore 
said,  not  to  mention  others  long  past,  would  fall  due  in  thirty 
days.  And  what  made  these  bills  particularly  dangerous 
was  the  circumstance  that  the  homestead  would  not  stand 
against  them.  Nothing  would  stop  them  short  of  bank 
ruptcy  ;  and  to  take  the  benefit  of  bankruptcy  required,  even 
if  you  were  your  own  attorney,  about  a  hundred  dollars  to 
start  on.  Clearly  that  was  out  of  the  question.  But  some 
thing  must  be  done  ;  and  that  in  a  few  days.  Clarence  Hall 
seemed  to  be  approaching  insanity.  One  night  he  was  walk 
ing  down  the  street,  thinking,  if  a  man  in  his  state  of  mind 
may  be  said  to  think,  of  how  he  was  to  meet  the  difficulties 
before  him,  when  he  found  the  sidewalk  blocked  up  by  a  crowd 
pressing  its  way  into  a  room,  from  which  proceeded  a  con 
fused  noise.  He  stopped  to  listen,  and  he  heard  the  voice  ot 
an  auctioneer,  apparently,  crying,  "  Four  hundred  and  nine 
ty-live  dollars  still  remaining  in  the  rack,  and  only  one  dol 
lar  a  chance  at  the  whole  entire  lot !  "  "  .Four  hundred  and 


292  SA  mi. 

ninety-five  dollars  still  remaining  in  the  rack,  and  only  one 
dollar  a  chance  at  the  whole  entire  lot !  "  Clarence  listened ; 
he  looked  around  him ;  there  was  no  one  who  knew  him  ; 
the  crowd  was  made  up  of  negroes  and  ragged  fellows ;  he 
was  in  great  need  of  money  ;  by  going  in  there  and  spending 
one  dollar  he  might  make  two  or  three  hundred  ;  he  pressed 
in  with  the  crowd.  This  was  a  new  kind  of  lottery,  and  was 
doing  a  brisk  business.  Behind  the  counter  was  a  large  rack 
in  which  were  rows  of  cards,  each  card  numbered  ;  attached 
to  each  card  was  also  a  common  pocket-knife,  worth  a  quar 
ter  of  a  dollar.  Two  men  were  upon  the  counter;  one  of 
them,  with  a  long  cane  in  his  hand,  was  explaining :  "  We 
put  five  hundi'ed  dollars  in  the  rack — there  is  a  gentleman 
who  has  just  drawn  out  five  dollars,  leaving  four  hundred 
and  ninety-five — behind  one  of  these  numbers  is  a  grand  prize 
of  two  hundred  dollars,  one  hundred  behind  another,  fifty 
behind  two  others,  and  twenty  numbers  have  each  five  dollars 
behind  them — there  are  but  six  hundred  numbers — five  hun 
dred  dollars  in  money — only  one  dollar  a  chance — and  so  we 
are  just  even,  counting  the  elegant  pocket-knives  at  less  than 
twenty  cents  apiece,  and  they  are  worth  a  dollar — and  our 
own  time  and  labor  at  nothing — you  get  an  elegant  pock 
et-knife  worth  your  money,  and  a  chance  at  two  hundred 
dollars — which  will  you  take,  sir  ? — choice  of  the  whole  rack 
— here's  a  gentleman  who  has  just  got  an  elegant  pocket- 
knife  and  five  dollars  besides."  The  other  man  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  counter  crying  in  a  loud,  auctioneer,  me 
chanical  voice,  "  Four  hundred  and  ninety-five  dollars  still 
remaining  in  the  rack,  and  only  one  dollar  a  chance  at  the 
whole  entire  lot." — "  Four  hundred  and  ninety-five  dollars 
still  remaining  in  the  rack,  and"  only  one  dollar  a  chance  at 
the  whole  entire  lot."  Clarence  Hall  had  three  dollars  in  his 
pocket.  His  beaver-hat,  in  such  a  crowd,  attracted  the  at- 


PEAC11-TEEE.  293 

tention  of  the  fast- talking  man  with  the  long  cane — "  This 
way,  sir — make  room  for  the  gentleman — this  way — you  look 
like  a  lucky  man."  Clarence  Hall  handed  him  a  dollar  ;  and 
it  was  not  without  a  silent  prayer  that  it  might  win  the  two- 
hundred-dollar  prize. 

"  Which  knife  do  you  take  ?  " 

"  Give  me  one  hundred  and  one." 

"Ah,  you  are  lucky,  but  unfortunate — that  number  has 
just  drawn  five  dollars." 

"  Two  hundred  and  two."  With  another  silent  prayer 
accommodating  itself  to  the  change. 

"  Two  hundred  and  two  does  not  draw  any  prize — but 
what  an  elegant  knife  ! "  Clarence  was  surprised,  but 
concluded  his  faith  had  not  been  strong  enough  •  so  he  hand 
ed  iu  another  dollar. 

"  Three  hundred  and  three." 

"  Three  hundred  and  three  only  gets  an  elegant  pocket- 
knife — you  will  get  all  the  most  elegant  knives  in  the  rack — 
good  taste — you  will  get  a  prize  after  a  while — if  at  first  you 
don't  succeed,  you  know,  as  the  schoolmaster  says."  Clar 
ence  Hall  was  blue ;  and  with  a  kind  of  defy-fate  air,  he 
handed  in  his  last  dollar. 

"  Four  hundred  and  four." 

"  Four  hundred  and  four  draws  a  nice  little  penknife — 
not  a  fortunate  set  of  numbers — another  line  of — "  But 
Clarence  Hall,  thoroughly  disgusted  with  himself,  lotteries, 
prayer,  and  fate,  was  already  half-way  out  of  the  room.  All 
that  night  he  heard  ringing  in  his  ears,  "  Four  hundred  and 
ninety-five  dollars  still  remaining  in  the  rack,  and  only  one 
dollar  a  chance  at  the  whole  entire  lot."  The  next  morning 

o 

Clarence  Hall  saw  in  the  newspapers  that  this  was  the  last 
day  for  procuiing  tickets  to  the  "  Grand  Library  Gift  Con 
cert."  The  capital  prize  was  one  hundred  thousand  dollars 


294  <?A   TEA. 

in  greenbacks ;  and  there  were  many  other  smaller  prizes. 
Somebody  would  draw  this  hundred  thousand  dollars ;  1 
might  be  the  one,  thought  a  great  many  people  that  day. 
Clarence  Hall  was  one  of  them.  What  an  amount  of  good  I 
could  accomplish  with  so  much  money  !  The  city  is  in  need 
of  a  hospital ;  if  I  had  this  money  I  would  give  ten  thousand 
dollars  towards  building  it.  And  that  noble  institution,  Dr. 
Boring's  "  Orphan's  Home  " — I  would  finish  it  at  once.  I 
could  send  at  least  a  couple  of  poor  young  men  to  the  Univer 
sity,  and  that  poor  Confederate  soldier  that  begs  on  the  streets 
— by  Jove,  I  would  board  him  at  the  Kimball !  And  Clarence 
Hall  rose,  and  walked  across  the  room,  excited  with  the 
theme.  And  was  it  not  infinitely  to  this  man's  honor  that 
all  these  great  ideas  crowded  into  his  head  before  he  once 
thought  of  his  own  poor  affairs  ?  Probably,  if  you  had  all 
the  United  States  to  pick  from,  you  would  not  find  a  man 
who  would  have  put  to  better  use  that  hundred  thousand 
dollars.  He  had  just  received  a  small  amount  of  money 
from  an  unexpected  quarter  that  very  morning.  It  seemed 
providential.  He  pulled  out  a  ten-dollar  bill,  and  looked  at 
it  very  hard.  And  while  he  looked  at  it  he  determined  to 
buy  a  ticket  with  it,  and  made  to  himself  a  solemn  promise 
of  what  he  would  do  with  the  money — if  he  got  it.  Clar 
ence  Hall  felt  better  to-day  than  he  had  in  many — was  even 
heard  to  whistle  a  tune  ;  and  when  he  started  home,  and 
saw  on  the  corner  of  the  street  a  poor  old  man  grinding  an 
organ,  he  said  to  himself — "  poor  devil — I  wonder  what  your 
life  has  been — what  cursed  luck  may  have  brought  you  to 
this  ?  "  Clarence  Hall  dropped  a  whole  dollar  into  the  old 
man's  hat,  and  passed  on;  the  -poor  old  organ-grinder  stop 
ping  and  staring  at  him  in  blank  astonishment. 

One  day  Mirabeau  Holmes  mid  Frod  Van  Comer  were  at 
Mrs.  Sutherland's.     They  had  been  speaking  of  a  daily  news- 


PEACU-TKEE.  295 

paper  that  Mirabeau  and  Fred  had  announced  their  intention 
of  starting  in  the  city. 

"  I  think  your  are  quite  correct  in  your  ideas  of  the  enor 
mous  power  of  the  Press.  Hitherto  our  people  have  been 
largely  controlled  by  their  orators  in  politics,  and  by  the  per 
nicious  idea  of  hereditary  rank  in  all  their  social  and  indus 
trial  life.  But  now,  the  public  Press  has  supplanted  the 
orators ;  and,  unless  the  money-power  becomes  too  great, 
which  is  much  to  be  feared,  educated  intellect  will  take 
the  place  of  our  old  and  absurd  notions  of  rank,"  said  Mrs. 
Sutherland. 

"  But  if  this  power  is  all  to  be  exerted  in  the  cause  of 
conservatism,"  said  Mirabeau,  "  I  am  not  able  to  see  any 
great  good  likely  to  be  accomplished  by  it." 

"  Why,  the  conservative  Press  will  keep  us  where  we  are  ; 
it  will  keep  us  from  relapsing  into  barbarism  !  "  said  Fred. 

"  But  surely  we  should  not  consent  always  to  lag  in  the 
rear  of  civilization.  To  be  sure,  when  we  were  cursed  with 
slavery  we  could  not  do  better ;  but  now  we  are  free  ! 
And  if  we  do  not  compete  successfully  with  the  foremost  it 
will  be  our  own  fault,"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  Surely,  if  we  should  fail  it  cannot  be  much  our  own 
fault,  that  is,  the  fault  of  the  present  generation  especially, 
if  what  our  enemies  at  the  North  say  be  true — that  we  are 
naturally  indolent,  lacking  in  pluck  and  enterprise,  and,  with 
al,  scarcely  emerged  from  barbarism,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  I  do  not  think  the  Northern  peo 
ple  are  our  enemies  ;  I  am  sure  their  representative  men  are 
not — such  men  as  Henry  Wilson,  John  W.  Forney,  Lyman 
Trumbull,  Mr.  Beecher,  and  even  Horace  Greeley  and  Gerrit 
Smith.  I  do  not  think  they  are  our  enemies ;  I  know  that 
General  Grant  is  now,  and  has  been  ever  since  the  war, 
friendly  towards  us.  As  for  these  other  men,  surely  we  can 


296  gA  TEA. 

give  them  credit  for  having  been  as  honest  as  ourselves. 
For  one,  I  am  willing  to  believe,  and  do  believe,  that  they 
have  been  through  their  whole  lives  actuated  by  the  highest 
motives  in  the  cause  of  Humanity.  I  know  of  no  set  of  men, 
in  all  the  history  of  the  world,  for  whom  I  have  more  admi 
ration,  notwithstanding  there  are  many  things  in  their  lives 
which  were  better  out,  than  for  those  '  old-time  abolition 
ists,'  "  said  Mirabeau. 

"  I  think  I  know  of  one  set  for  whom  I  have  a  great  deal 
more  admiration:  General  Lee  and  the  heroes  who  fol 
lowed  him,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Ah,  I  scarcely  thought  it  necessary  to  say  that  not  even 
yourself  should  go  beyond  me  in  admiration  for  General  Lee 
and  his  army.  If  heroic  bravery  and  sublime  endurance  be 
the  measure,  all  the  world  must  acknowledge  that  General 
Lee  led  his  noble  army  to  a  height  of  glory  far  above  that 
attained  by  any  Northern  rival.  And  I  will  say  further, 
that  if  I  had  the  whole  world  to  select  from,  and  was  re 
quired  to  point  to  the  man  of  the  loftiest  virtue  and  purest 
character,  upon  which  there  was  never  a  stain  or  a  tarnish,  I 
should  point  to  Jefferson  Davis,"  replied  Mirabeau. 

"  That  is  a  platform  broad  enough,  certainly  ;  especially  as 
you  are  not  likely  to  find  more  than  one  willing  to  stand 
upon  it !  "  said  Fred. 

"And  that  one  myself?  Well,  so  much  the  worse  for 
them"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  As  the  lawyer  said,  when  told  that  the  facts  did  not 
sustain  him  ? "  added  Mrs.  Sutherland.  "  But,  as  King 
Richard  says,  to  leave  oft'  this  keen  encotmter  of  our  wits," 
said  Mrs.  Sutherland,  resinning,  "  I  think  I  understood 
that  your  paper  was  to  be  conservative." 

"  Not  conservative  ;  democratic,"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  What  is  the  difference  V  " 


PEACII-TEEE.  297 

"  None,  in  fact.  But  we  mean  to  preach  liberal  doc 
trines  from  a  democratic  platform,"  said  Fred. 

"  You  think  that  a  necessary  precaution,  in  order  to  be 
heard,  I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Yes  j  we  dress  like  shepherds  in  order  that  the  demo 
cratic  sheep  of  this  coxmtry  may  not  be  alarmed.  They 
would  flee  from  anything  they  have  not  been  used  to,"  said 
Fred. 

"  For  my  part,  I  once  thought  there  might  even  be  a  pos 
sibility  of  bringing  that  party  itself  up  to  higher  ground  than 
that  of  its  opponents.  Certain  it  is  that  no  party  can  ever 
triumph  over  the  one  now  in  power  that  does  not  take  high 
er  ground.  For  example,  it  must  at  least  go  for  universal 
suffrage,  a  national  system  of  public  schools,  and  a  prohibi 
tory  liquor  law.  Speaking  especially  of  the  Soiith,  would  it 
not  be  a  grand  thing  to  compel  the  world  to  acknowledge  her 
as  the  champion  of  progress,  the  light  of  civilization,  on  this 
side  the  waters?  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  if  our 
people  would  cease  to  wrangle  over  the  past,  abandon  their 
conservatisms,  and  all  come  together  in  the  great  work,  we 
might,  by  our  achievements  in  art,  and  industry,  and  science, 
and  letters,  even  accomplish  so  much.  It  is  a  shame  that  we 
should  not  be  ahead  !  For  rapid  progress,  for  every  con 
quest  in  knowledge,  we  have  the  best  material  in  the  whole 
world,  except  the  French ;  and  the  superiority  of  our  free 
political  institutions  makes  us  equal  even  to  the  French," 
said  Mirabeau,  kindling  with  his  subject ;  for  he  never 
thought  of  it  without  being  filled  with  the  highest  enthusi 
asm. 

"  That  would  be  a  great  triumph  indeed  ;  but  we  can 
never  hope  for  that  until  we  have  higher  education,  and 
more  of  it.  I  would  not  consent  to  a  national  system  of 

public  schools ;  but  I  think  each  State  ought  to  have  such  a 
18* 


208  gA  IKA. 

system  ;  in  spite  of  our  poverty,  I  think  it  a  shame  that  our 
State  has  none.  Ignorance  is  always  more  costly  than 
knowledge  at  any  price.  Our  women  especially  stand  in 
deplorable  need  of  higher  education.  No  compliments.  The 
last  census  reveals  a  fact  which  ought  to  excite  the  shame  of 
every  man,  and  the  indignation  of  every  woman,  in  the 
State.  I  doubt  not  you  both  have  noticed  it :  that  there 
are  forty-two  thousand  adult  whites  in  the  State  who  can 
neither  read  nor  write;  and  that  of  this  number  there  are 
twice  as  many  women  as  men.  But  we  need  also  some 
higher  institutions  of  learning  for  our  women.  There  is  not 
a  single  one  in  the  State  where  a  woman  can  get  what  would 
even  be  a  passable  education  for  a  man  of  the  most  microsco 
pic  pretensions  to  culture,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Let  our  State  University  be  opened  to  women.  For 
three  reasons :  women  ought  to  have,  equally  with  men,  the 
benefits  of  the  very  best  institutions  of  learning ;  the  State  is 
not  able  to  support  more  than  one  great  University  ;  the  one 
we  have  ought  to  be  inuoh  more  largely  endowed,  and  tuition 
ought  to  be  made  free  ;  the  two  sexes  ought  to  be  educated 
together,  anyhow,1'  said  Fred. 

"  The  intellectual  emancipation  of  woman  is  my  hobby. 
I  believe  I  would  even  agree  with  Mr.  Yan  Comer,  that 
our  State  University  ought  to  be  opened  to  women,"  said 
Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Intellectual  emancipation  will  never  come  before  their 
political  and  social  emancipation  ;  that  is,  if  it  must  come  at 
their  own  wish,"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean  by  political  emancipation  ; 
but  what  do  you  mean  by  their  social  emancipation  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  He  means  their  emancipation  from  filigree  !  "  said  Fred. 

"  No ;  I  mean  that  the  wife  must  be  the  equal  of  the  hus- 


PEACH-TREE.  299 

band,  not  only  before  the  law,  but  as  an  intellectual  and 
moral  being,  and  as  a  member  of  society,"  said  Mirabeau. 

"  Though  I  believe  it  will  come,  and  that  very  shortly,  I 
think  it  will  be  a  sad  day  for  us  when  women  go  to  the 
polls,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Cato  seems  to  have  been  possessed  of  a  similar  notion 
when  it  was  proposed  to  allow  the  Roman  matrons  a  certain 
liberty,"  said  Fred. 

"  You  mean  when  he  made  that  speech  against  allowing 
them  to  ride  in  carriages,  or  to  wear  garments  of  more  than 
one  color  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Yes ;  and  when  he  proclaimed  a  female  insurrection, 
because  they  preferred  so  modest  a  request,"  said  Fred. 

"  I  reckon  if,  instead  of  such  a  modest  request,  they  had 
ventured  to  ask  that  the  law  be  repealed  which  gave  the 
husband  the  power  of  life  and  death  over  his  wife ;  or  if 
they  had  dared  to  ask  for  the  repeal  of  that  law  which  classed 
them  along  with  furniture,  as  personalty,  making  them  so 
much  a  matter  of  property  that  the  possession  and  use  of 
them  for  an  entire  year  was  held  to  give  sufficient  title  to 
them ;  the  virtuous  old  conservative  would  have  immediate 
ly  demanded  sentence  of  death  against  the  whole  of  them," 
said  Mirabeau. 

"  The  experience  of  women,  certainly,  has  been  a  very 
cruel  one.  And  their  condition  now,  in  spite  of  all  fine 
compliments,  is  deplorable  enough.  Their  station  is  essen 
tially  low.  But  their  great  need  is  intellectual  emancipa 
tion  ;  and  if  I  thought  as  you  do,  that  that  could  not  be 
accomplished  without  female  suffrage,  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
say  that  I  should  work  for  female  suffrage  with  all  my 
might,"  said  Mrs.  Sutherland. 

"  Plainly,"  said  Mirabeau  to  Fred,  after  they  had  leftr 
*'  Mrs.  Su  fcherland  is  held  back  only  by  the  pressure  of  sur- 


300  gA  IEA. 

rounding  public  opinion.  In  New  York,  or  Boston,  she 
would  be  for  woman's  rights." — "  Evidently." — "  Now,  she 
thinks  that  at  length  woman  has  about  reached  her  '  true 
sphere.'  Probably  the  Phoenicians  thought  the  same  thing 
three  thousand  years  ago,  when,  for  the  sake  of  their  com 
mercial  interests,  they  compelled  their  women  to  stand  naked 
upon  the  beach,  and  by  various  signs  entice  seamen  ashore." 
"Did  they  do  that  ?"—"  Herodotus  says  so."— "  I  don't 
believe  it.  It  reminds  me  of  one  of  Captain  Pinter's  sto 
ries  :  Captain  Pinter  says  a  woman  was  telling  her  experi 
ence,  and  made  rather  a  bad  out  at  it.  The  preacher 
thought  he  would  help  her  out ;  so  he  says  to  her,  '  You  be 
lieve  that  Christ  died  for  you  ?  '  '  Why,'  says  she,  '  I  didn't 
know  he  was  dead  !  '  '  Yes,'  says  the  preacher,  '  many  hun 
dred  years  ago,  away  in  Palestine,  on  Mount  Calvary.' 
'  Well,'  says  the  woman,  '  it's  a  long  time  ago,  and  a  long 
ways  off;  and  I  hope  it's  a  lie !  ' : 

The  great  Library  Gift  Concert  drawing  came  off.  The 
capital  prize  was  drawn  by  a  green-grocer  out  West.  Clarence 
Hall  drew  a  blank.  Then  Clarence  Hall  saw  the  utter  futil 
ity  of  all  calculations  based  upon  luck,  and  his  trust  in  spe 
cial  providences  was  also  considerably  shaken.  He  took  his 
resolution.  Once  more  he  stood  up  the  Clarence  Hall  of 
yore.  Nay,  more.  Once  he  had  been  sanguine,  but  resolute 
too — determined  to  conquer  in  the  battle  of  life,  yet  seeing 
no  great  difficulties  to  be  overcome.  Then  he  had  been  fear 
less.  Now  he  was  heroic.  If  everything  he  had  was  sold, 
even  though  at  considerable  sacrifice,  he  could  pay  all  his  debts, 
and  still  have  a  few  hundred  dollars  left.  His  creditors  would 
have  been  glad  to  compromise  for  half  the  amounts  due  them. 
Clarence  Hall  knew  this,  but  he  did  not  mention  it.  He 
determined  to  pay  the  last  farthing  he  owed,  and  start  anew 
— this  time  even  with  the  world.  He  was  still  young,  not 


PEACH-TREE.  301 

thirty.  And  if,  as  he  now  saw,  mournfully  yet  clearly,  he 
must  fight  life's  battle  alone,  still  he  would  fight  it,  and  con 
quer  even  the  most  glorious  promise  of  his  youth.  If  there 
was  for  him  less  of  happiness,  there  was  more  of  heroism. 
He  would  profit  by  the  errors  of  the  past.  Calmly,  steadily, 
slowly,  if  it  must  be,  he  would  hold  on  his  course.  Clarence 
Hall  went  to  his  creditors  and  made  the  proposition  to  them. 
They  were  thunderstruck.  This  was  not  the  usual  way  of 
doing  business.  What !  a  man  proposing  to  sell  himself 
out  of  house  and  home  to  pay  his  debts,  and  not  even  insist 
ing  on  a  compromise  !  It  was  almost  unbelievable.  Of 
course,  they  would  not  interpose  any  obstacles  to  the  sale. 
And  just  here  I  cannot  but  mention  with  pleasure  the  fact 
that  not  one  of  these  men  asked  Clarence  Hall  to  pay  the 
cost  of  their  previous  legal  proceedings.  The  fact  is,  dear 
reader,  we  have  a  people  here  more  kind,  more  generous, 
better  and  truer  in  all  the  sympathies  and  impulses  of  the 
heart,  than  any  people  on  the  earth.  That  evening,  when 
Clarence  Hall  went  home,  he  had  already  determined  upon 
his  plan  and  taken  steps  to  put  it  in  execution.  Still  he 
thought  it  right  to  consult  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Hall  had  greatly  improved  of  late.  But  as  her  health 
grew  better  her  temper  grew  worse  ;  which  latter  proceeding 
is  frequently  observed  to  double  with  the  rapidity  of  Mr. 
Weller's  deputy-shepherd's  accounts.  And  this  is  a  result 
which  happens  far  from  seldom,  and  that  too  in  young  wo 
men  who,  one  would  think,  have  been  almost  reduced  to  a 
piece  of  "  white  putty  that  can  feel  pain."  Thus  it  was  with 
Clarence  Hall's  wife.  For  some  time  after  she  had  been 
married  she  had  neither  will  nor  temper.  But  then  came 
several  months  of  ill  health ;  and  with  it  naturally  came 
peevishness,  from  which  to  ill  temper  the  way  is  short  enough. 
When  Clarence  Hall  told  his  wife  of  his  difficulties,  and 


302  9A  IRA- 

proposed  to  her  that  they  should  adopt  the  plan  he  had  al 
ready  decided  upon,  she  opposed  everything.  Then  there 
were  accusations,  reproaches,  tears.  But  Clarence  Hall  had 
taken  his  resolution,  and  follow  it  he  would. 

The  next  day  Marian  Malcomb  went  to  see  Mrs.  Hall. 
Annie  Dealing  and  Marian  Malcomb  had  been  school-girls  to 
gether.  To-day  Marian  was  confirmed  in  what  she  had  sus 
pected  for  some  time — that  Annie's  husband  was  seriously 
embarrassed  in  his  affairs.  She  knew  of  the  burning  of 
his  office,  but  not  of  the  extent  of  his  loss.  She  had  more 
than  once  heard  her  father  regret  that  Hall  had  not  been 
elected  to  the  office  of  city  attorney.  And  to-day  she 
managed,  with  the  utmost  delicacy,  to  learn  the  truth  of  the 
case.  That  evening,  when  her  father  came  home,  she  met  him 
in  the  walk  and  told  him  all  about  it,  adding — "  I  have 
heard  you  say  several  times  how  sorry  you  were  that  he  was 
not  elected  to  be  city  attorney  when  you  were  trying  to  get 
the  schools ;  and  I  thought  maybe  you  might  want  to  aid 
him  in  some  way."  When  Mr.  Malcomb  said  "  he  would  send 
for  Mr.  Hall  to  come  to  his  office  to-morrow,"  Marian  was 
content ;  for  she  believed  that  her  father  would  do  the  very 
thing  that  ought  to  be  done.  That  this  man  had  the  wisdom 
to  discern  the  right,  and  the  willingness  to  do  the  right,  was 
the  perfect  conviction,  not  only  of  Marian,  but  of  every  mem 
ber  of  his  family.  When  he  said  he  would  see  about  any 
thing,  they  knew  it  would  be  seen  about,  and  well,  too  ;  and 
let  this  be  said  to  his  praise.  Clarence  Hall  called  at  Mr. 
Malcomb's  office  late  in  th<  afternoon  of  the  next  day. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Malcomb,  "  of 
your  own  affairs.  And  when  I  have  given  you  the  reason  of 
my  wishing  to  speak  with  you,  T  hope  you  will  not  consider 
me  officious.  Our  people  carry  politics  into  everything,  and  I 
fear  that  by  becoming  complicated  in  my  school  plans  you 


PEACH-TKEE.  303 

have  injured  your  practice.  And  this,  coming  along  with 
the  unfortunate  loss  of  your  office,  and  especially  your 
library,  I  feared  might  have  seriously  embarrassed  your 
business.  If  I  am  correct  in  my  conjecture,  I  have  sent  for 
you,  to  say  I  might  be  able  to  assist  you  in  some  way.  Perw 
haps  a  loan  might  be  of  advantage  to  you." 

Clarence  Hall  was  not  less  struck  by  Mr.  Malcomb's 
delicacy  than  by  his  generosity.  He  desired  to  assist  him  in 
his  difficulties,  and  for  fear  of  touching  his  sensitiveness,  pre 
tended  to  make  himself  in  some  way  the  cause  of  these 
difficulties. 

"  I  scarcely  know  how  to  thank  your,  sir,"  replied  Clarence 
Hall,  "  for  your  kindness.  My  affairs  have  indeed  been 
seriously  embarrassed  ;  but  not,  I  think,  in  any  way  from  the 
cause  you  mention." 

"  True,  there  might  be  a  difference  of  judgment  there  ;  but 
no  matter  for  that ;  if  I  could  aid  you,  as  I  have  mentioned, 
or  in  any  other  way  you  may  suggest,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so." 

Mr.  Malcomb  knew  something  of  the  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  young  men  struggling  in  the  battle  of  life.  He  had 
been  through  some  of  them,  and  a  good  many  of  them,  too, 
himself.  As  I  have  already  said,  this  man  was  no  born 
aristocrat ;  he  had  neither  wealth  nor  great  relations  to  get 
him  place  and  power,  and  help  him  along.  He  had  made  his 
way  from  the  bottom  round,  and  had  reached  the  top.  For 
many  years  he  had  been,  in  his  State,  the  exponent  of  the 
feelings,  and  ideas,  and  purposes  of  the  great  mass  of  people 
who  work  for  their  living.  He  was  now  the  most  represen 
tative  man,  in  liis  section  of  the  Union,  of  the  new  civilization. 
And  here  was  the  grand  reason  of  his  success :  he  had 
learned  early  to  work,  work,  am1  <^ntinue  to  work.  It 
would  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  had  worked  for  thirty 
rf  without  a  week's  rest.  And  this  moment  he  was  prob- 


304 

ably  both  the  wealthiest  and  hardest- working  man  in  the 
State.  Evidently  here  was  a  man  capable  of  sympathizing 
with  Clarence  Hall  in  his  resolution  as  well  as  in  his  troubles. 
Clarence  Hall,  while  thanking  him  warmly  for  his  disinter- 
^sted  kindness,  thought  it  best  to  decline  any  pecuniary  aid, 
and  to  stick  to  the  plan  he  had  already  decided  upon.  And 
Mr.  Malcomb  too,  doubtless,  thought  he  was  taking  that 
course  which  would,  in  the  long  run,  be  for  the  best.  I 
said  that  Clarence  Hall  was  now  heroic ;  and  so  he  was. 
Once  he  had  thought  of  happiness  ;  now  he  thought  of  duty. 
And  just  here  I  must  mention  an  act  which  I  think  more  to 
Mr.  Malcomb's  credit  than  a  grand  speech  in  the  United 
States  Senate  would  be,  and  which  I  record  with  more 
pleasure  :  he  sent  for  a  furniture  dealer,  and  instructed  him 
to  attend  Clarence  Hall's  sale,  and  on  his,  Mr.  Malcomb's 
account,  to  make  the  articles  sold  bring  their  full  value. 
The  Dealings,  except  the  pater-familias — which  is  a  Latin 
word  meaning  ordinarily,  pompous-un-familiar-ass — had  con 
tinued  to  visit  Mrs.  Hall.  As  the  day  approached  they  were 
constantly  making  the  smallest  rat-biting  observations ;  and 
endeavoring  to  impress  upon  the  tabula  rasa  of  Mrs.  Hall 
what  an  awful  and  disgraceful  matter  it  was  thus  to  be 
"  brought  down  in  the  world."  Mrs.  Hall  declared  she  could 
not  endure  the  jar  and  bustle,  and  that  she  would  go  to  her 
mother's  until  it  was  over ;  and  one  day,  while  her  husband 
was  at  his  office,  she  went  to  her  mother's  accordingly.  The 
sale  had  come  and  gone.  Once  more  Clarence  Hall  was  even 
with  the  world.  To  be  sure,  he  was  somewhat  disappointed 
in  the  amount  realized.  What  would  have  been  the  result 
without  Mr.  Malcomb's  bidder  ?  He  would  not  have  saved  a 
•single  dollar  !  But,  as  it  was,  he-saved  enough  to  fit  up  right 
handsomely  a  pretty  little  cottage  which  he  had  taken  in  a 
pleasant  quarter  of  the  city.  He  was  at  home.  He  was 


PEACH-TKEE.  305 

"  even  with  the  world."  He  was  ready  to  begin  the  battle  of 
life  anew  ;  if  with  less  sanguine  hopes,  certainly  with  more 
experience  and  better  judgment,  and,  probably,  higher  mo 
tives.  He  called  for  his  wife ;  she  was  too  unwell  to  go. 
He  called  again  ;  the  baby  was  too  unwell.  He  called  again  ; 
something  else  the  matter.  A  week  passed.  Clarence  Hall 
was  alarmed. 


5. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

"  Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth." 

TENNYSON. 
,  I    '  "  Belle  chose  est  tot  ravie."  —  FRENCH  PBOVEBB. 

As  to  whether  there  ought  to  be,  in  the  geography  of 
human  life,  any  such  vale  as  "  Glencoe  ;  "  or  whether,  seeing 
that  all's  for  the  best,  every  vale  should  not  rather  be  a  vale 
of  laughing  than  of  weeping  ;  or,  at  the  very  least,  seeing 
that  nothing  can  be  any  otherhow  than  just  as  it  is,  whether 
one  had  not  better  regard  all  the  vales,  as  well  as  every  other 
feature  of  the  geography  aforesaid,  with  the  most  philosophic 
indifference  ;  I  stop  not  here  to  inquire.  For  which,  I  call 
the  reader  to  witness,  I  have  at  least  two  most  excellent 
reasons.  First,  my  business  in  this  book  is  to  relate  what 
actually  was,  and  still  is  in  great  part,  rather  than  to  specu 
late  upon  what  ought  to  be  ;  and  secondly,  the  American 
people,  wishing,  perhaps,  to  avoid  the  example  of  the  fallen 
archangels,  are  not  prone,  in  discourse  sweet,  to  sit  on  hills 
retired,  or,  indeed,  anywhere  else,  and  reason  high  "  of  provi- 
di'iico,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate."  From  which  I  con 
clude  such  argument  might  not  be  as  intensely  interesting  to 
them  as  was  that  theological  argument  of  the  Christian 


(JA   IRA. 

knight,  Orlando,  to  the  Giant  Fenacute.  But  this  matter  of 
Orlando  and  Fenacute  may  as  well  be  related,  if  only  to  show 
something  of  the  general  degeneracy  of  modern  times,  and 
the  special  decadence  of  modern  theologians.  Charlemagne, 
at  the  siege  of  Pamplona,  encountered  the  Infidel  Giant 
Fenacute.  This  Fenacute  was  a  great  Giant,  an  enormous 
Giant  at  all  points ;  descended  in  a  direct  line,  according  to  the 
learned  priesthood  of  that  day,  from  Goliath  of  old  !  He  made 
great  havoc  with  Charlemagne's  army,  hewing  down  whole 
brigades,  as  it  were.  The  stoutest  warriors,  the  most  re 
nowned  knights,  were  sent  against  him  in  vain.  Finally 
Orlando  challenged  him  to  single  combat.  Orlando  was  -about 
to  follow  the  fate  of  all  who  had  preceded  him,  when  sud 
denly,  in  the  midst  of  the  fight,  he  thought  of  his  spiritual 
weapons.  He  engaged  the  Giant  in  a  theological  contro 
versy.  This  was  too  much  for  Fenacute ;  his  strength  left 
him ;  and  the  gallant  knight  triumphantly  cut  off  his  head. 

Having  told  what  I  know  of  the  Giant  Fenacute,  which 
may  even  yet  serve  as  an  embellishment  for  a  sermon — if  any 
of  our  friends  should  be  forced  to  go  to  preaching — I  now  pro 
ceed  to  relate  the  main  events  in  the  life-histories  of  our  peo 
ple.  And  just  here  may  be  mentioned  the  utter  impossibility 
of  ever  fully  knowing  the  life  of  another.  Let  any  one  reflect 
for  a  moment  upon  his  own  life :  of  the  ambitious  hopes, 
which  seem  grand  to-day — so  high  indeed,  that  you  think  even 
your  best  friends  would  not  appreciate  them,  but  might  even 
laugh  at  as  curious  ramblings  of  a  visionary  mind,  and  which 
you  therefore  keep  to  yourself,  probably  writing  them  down 
in  your  diary  only  to  laugh  or  wonder  at  to-morrow,  just  as 
you  feared  your  friends  would  ;  of  the  many  headaches  and 
heartaches,  and  the  disappointments  and  chagrin  that  you 
have  felt,  even,  it  may  be,  with  those  nearest  to  you  ;  above 
all,  of  the  thousand  inward  struggles  against  temptation,  in 


GLENCOE.  300 

which,  many  a  time,  under  the  hard  force  of  circumstances, 
YOU  have  almost  or  even  quite  consented  to  yield  to  what  has 
afterwards  in  moments  of  retrospection,  as  you  lay  upon 
your  bed  at  night,  brought  to  your  face  the  rush  of  shame 
and  self-contempt;  let  one  think  of  these  things,  and  many 
more,  both  on  the  good  and  on  the  bad  side  of  his  own  life,  and 
then  say  whether  it  is  likely  that  another  will  ever  know  all  of 
his  life-history.  One  never  knows  but  one's  own  life,  that  is, 
one's  inner  life,  is  almost  totally  different  from  the  life  of 
any  other  creature  in  the  whole  universe.  As  for  these  per 
sons  whose  histories  I  am  writing,  I  have  known  them  all 
for  years,  and  with  several  of  them  have  been  on  terms  of  the 
closest  intimacy.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  there  are  some  secret 
hopes  disappointed,  some  silent  cries  and  unshed  tears  for 
ideals  vanished  or  turned  to  Dead-Sea  fruit,  known  only  to 
themselves  and  God ! 

Many  years  ago  Mr.  Walton,  in  obedience  to  a  cursed 
social  lie  that  triumphs  over  the  laws  of  God,  and  crushes 
with  Juggernaut  wheels  the  life-blood  from  the  human  heart, 
had  driven  his  own  beautiful,  unfortunate  daughter  forth 
friendless  and  hopeless  xipon  a  pitiless  world.  But  it  is  a 
very  hard  thing  to  silence  utterly  the  voice  of  nature.  After 
wards,  when  it  was  too  late  ;  when  he  believed  that  his  poor 
daughter  was  dead ;  when  he  read  what  he  thought  to  be  her 
last  words — <l  alone,  alone  in  the  great  world  ;  without  friends, 
without  bread,  without  hope,  what  can  I  do  but  die  ? " 
when  he  read  how  she,  his  own  daughter,  had  gone  to  beg 
for  bread,  and  was  driven — good  God  ! — it  may  be,  who 
knows  ? — even  beaten  away  by  servants ;  when  he  saw  her 
touching  prayer,  that  her  father  and  mother — her  father,  he 
himself,  her  own  father,  the  monster  who  had  driven  her 
forth  thus  to  die,  wretched  and  friendless — might  never 
know  of  the  depth  of  her  suffering;  and  when  he  imagined 


310  £A  E^- 

he  saw  her  beautiful  form  laid  upon  the  cold  river-bank,  her 
innocent  child  tenderly  bound  to  her  bosom  with  plaits  of 
her  own  silken  hair,  the  pale  mother's  lips  almost  trembling 
yet  with  the  beautiful  prayer,  "  as  we  go  to  sleep  to-night  in 
each  other's  arms,  so  may  we  wake  in  the  morning  ;  "  then  it 
was  that  he  saw  himself  their  murderer  !  The  dark  waves  of 
despair  rolled  over  him.  Who  shall  hear  the  cry  from  their 
depths  ?  Or  who  shall  interpret  it  ?  Verily,  verily  !  The 
poor  Indian  may  die  even  joyfully  under  the  wheels  of  his 
Juggernaut,  because  the  Juggernaut  is  to  him  a  god.  But  the 
sum  of  possible  misery  in  this  world  is  even  this,  that  man 
feels  himself  crushed  under  the  Juggernaut  wheels,  and 
knows  it  is  no  Divinity,  but  only  a  hideous  idol.  So  it  was 
with  Mr.  Walton  now.  He  saw  his  children  disgraced  and 
dead ;  he  felt  himself  forced  down  to  despair ;  and  knew, 
too  late,  that  it  was  no  Divinity,  but  only  a  shapeless,  san 
guinary  idol,  a  huge,  hideous,  social  lie.  The  darkness  had 
encompassed  him,  and  all  his  life  had  he  struggled  and  cried 
out  for  light.  JBut  the  light  never  came.  Mr.  Walton  was 
a  sincere  Christian  man  ;  and  he  tried  hard  to  atone  for  the 
past.  He  was  wealthy  ;  he  fed  and  clothed  the  poor ;  he 
gave  liberally  to  all  good  institutions ;  his  charities  were 
large  and  generous.  But  while  he  regarded  all  this  as  his 
duty,  still,  doubtless,  having  a  much  stronger  sense  of  it  than 
if  all  had  been  clear  in  his  past  life,  he  did  not  trust  to  good 
works,  he  did  not  claim  aught  for  his  own  merits ;  he  resor 
ted  to  prayer  ;  and  often  long,  and  in  anguish  did  he  pray. 
Alas,  alas  1  Mr.  Walton,  for  what  is  it  you  pray  ?  That  the 
effect  may  not  follow  its  cause.  But  this  is  an  inexorable 
law,  nor  is  there  any  power,  on  the  earth  or  above  the  earth, 
that  can  reverse  it.  Hope  nof,  man,  to  do  wrong,  and  theu 
by  prayer  or  by  works,  by  the  aves  of  priests  or  by  the  in 
tercession  of  saints,  angels  or  gods,  to  get  the  inevitable 


GLENCOE.  311 

I 
laws  of  fate  reversed.     Know  that  whatever  you  do  becomes 

a  part  of  your  life,  and  hope  not  to  get  rid  of  it.  Thus  it 
was  with  Mr.  Walton ;  for  while  his  theoretical  faith  taxight 
him  to  believe  he  was  forgiven,  his  feelings  taught  him  that 
at  least  his  own  nature  would  not  be  appeased. 

And  thus  the  years  sped  on.  We  have  seen  how  the  last 
hope  of  his  life  was  swept  away.  We  have  seen  his  young 
est  son,  in  whom  the  old  father  had  fixed  his  last  ambition, 
go  forth  in  the  pride  and  flush  of  youth  only  to  fill  an  early 
but  honored  grave.  And  then  we  have  seen  how  a  bright 
promise  from  his  oldest  son,  who  had  been  long  ago  given 
up  save  by  his  hopeful  mother,  came  to  light  for  a  moment 
with  deceitful  glare  the  gloom  of  his  life.  We  have  seen  Alf 
Walton  leave  for  Paris,  to  bring  back  to  its  own  native  earth 
the  remains  of  his  young  heroic  brother.  He  had  delayed 
himself  two  months  in  New  York  ;  at  the  end  of  which  time 
his  father,  who  had  heard  nothing  of  him  up  to  this  time,  but 
imagined  something  must  be  wrong,  received  a  note  from  him, 
stating  that  he  would  sail  for  Europe  that  day.  Two  months 
more  had  passed,  and  no  word  from  his  only  surviving  son. 
Mrs.  Walton  was  alarmed,  then  depressed,  and  said  she 
could  not  tell  how  or  why,  but  she  felt  like  some  new  trouble 
was  about  to  be  sent  upon  them.  Mr.  Walton,  too,  had  be 
come  uneasy  and  restless.  Once  he  had  written,  and  twice 
telegraphed,  without  getting  any  information.  He  went 
down  in  town  earlier  than  had  been  his  custom,  anxious  to  get 
the  mail. 

One  morning,  it  was  in  December,  the  streets  sloppy,  and 
a  cold,  drizzling  rain  blowing  from  the  east,  Mr.  Walton,  his 
tall,  spare  figure  enveloped  in  a  long,  close-fitting  overcoat, 
was  seen  hurrying  along  the  street  in  front  of  the  telegraph 
office.  He  was  called  to  from  within ;  but  his  head  was 
closely  muffled,  and  he  was  in  a  deep  study ;  he  heard  not  the 


S12  CA  IRA. 

call,  and  was  hurrying  along — hurrying  from  fate  !  But  who 
shall  escape  from  his  fate?  The  messenger  ran  up  with  Mr. 
Walton  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  Mr.  Walton 
turned  quickly  and  inquiringly.  "  Message  for  you — carried 
it  to  your  office,  and  was  just  starting  with  it  to  your  house." 
Mr.  Walton's  office  was  on  Wall  street,  not  many  yards  off. 
The  message  was  from  his  London  correspondent,  and  in 
formed  him  that  his  son,  Mr.  Alf  Walton,  had  been  shot  the 
night  before,  and  was  now  dead.  An  hour  afterwards,  in  a 
pouring  rain,  without  any  umbrella,  Mr.  Walton,  with  head 
hung  upon  his  breast,  was  seen  going  towards  home.  Mrs. 
Walton,  already  tottering  from  age,  disease,  trouble,  and  ner 
vous  dread  of  some  impending  calamity,  was  completely  pros 
trated  by  the  shock.  All  day,  and  far  into  the  night,  Mr. 
Walton  watched  by  her  bedside.  Twelve  o'clock.  Her  limbs 
were  cold.  Mrs.  Walton  was  dying.  Yes,  yes.  Threescore 
years  of  trial  would  soon  be  finished.  Fifty  years  ago  the 
roseate  hues  of  morning  had  been  quickly  overcast.  The 
darkness  of  night  was  approaching  to  shut  the  scene.  What 
is  the  sum  of  this  life  ?  A  brief  promise  in  the  early  morn 
ing,  and  half  a  century  of  care,  disappointment,  and  despair. 
Mrs.  Walton  had  not  yet  spoken.  It  was  past  midnight. 
She  called  for  Mr.  Walton — called  him  by  his  Christian  name, 
as  she  had  in  the  far-off  day  of  youthful  hope  and  promise. 
All  were  requested  to  leave  the  room  for  a  moment. 

"  My  dear  husband,"  said  the  dying  woman,  "  I  have  been 
thinking  of  our  darling  child.  I  dreamed  to-night  that  she 
was  not  dead.  It  may  be,  in  the  providence  of  God,  that  she 
is  still  living  somewhere  in  the  world  ;  or  it  may  be  that  the 
child  is  living.  If  not " — and  her  voice  trembled  with  pathos 
— "if  not,  then  all  our  children  are  gone.  Lean  over  closer 
to  me — I  saw  them  both  in  my  dream.  And  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  that  you  will  leave  your  property  so  that  if  they 


GLENCOE.  313 

be  living  they  can  get  it.  Will  you?  "  It  was  given.  And 
Mr.  Walton  kept  his  promise.  The  freed  spirit  of  Mrs.  Wal 
ton  rose  upon  the  air  with  the  morning  hymn  of  the  lark  ;  and 
as  the  far-off  trill  died  upon  the  ear  of  the  ascending  spirit, 
the  sweeter  notes  were  heard  of  voices  angelical  to  many  a 
harp  in  paradise. 

The  day  after  the  next  Mr.  Walton  stood  beside  the  grave 
of  his  wife.  He  stood  perfectly  erect,  and  was  silent.  His 
eye  was  cold  and  dry.  His  thin,  white  hair  floated  in  the 
fitful  blasts  of  wind.  His  face  was  rigid,  and  he  looked 
straight  before  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  old 
man  seemed  defiant  of  fate  itself.  But  when  they  were  about 
to  lower  the  coffin  he  motioned  them  to  stop.  He  bent  down 
and  gazed  intently  for  a  moment  upon  the  face  of  the  dead. 
"  Farewell."  And  without  another  word,  he  rose,  and 
walked  away  erect.  All  gone.  A  lonely  old  man.  All  of 
his  family  were  dead.  His  hearth  was  desolate ;  his  life 
solitary.  He  would  go  after  his  children.  He  would 
bring  them  home.  He  would  surround  himself  with  his 
dead.  A  little  while,  and  the  lonely  old  man  set  out  upon 
his  long,  sad  journey. 

On  the  last  evening  that  we  have  seen  Mr.  Brooke  carry 
Emma  Harlan  home  from  his  house,  it  was  noted  that  he 
litid  begun  to  look  upon  her  with  a  strange  light  in  his  eye. 
At  first  this  was  interpreted  by  her  to  mean  no  more  than 
a  watchful,  fatherly  affection.  But  there  is  a  wonderful  in 
stinct  in  woman's  nature,  which,  fairly  tried,  never  fails  to 
distinguish  the  light  of  love  from  every  other.  It  thrills  a 
chord  untouched  before  by  affection  of  family  or  friends.  Poor 
Emma  !  She  could  not  but  be  alarmed  ;  but  in  moments  of 
reflection  she  thought  she  must  surely  be  mistaken,  re 
proached  herself  bitterly,  arid,  to  atone  for  her  unworthy 

suspicions  of  her  best  friend,  only  truyted  Mr.  Brooke  more 

14 


314  gA  IRA. 

unreservedly  than  ever.  We  have  seen  how,  on  the  night 
before  Alf  Walton  left  the  city,  defenceless  innocence  was 
ai-med  against  the  most  cunning  attacks  of  that  artful  in 
triguer.  So  timely  was  the  warning,  and  so  complete  the 
armor,  that  we  almost  regarded  it  as  a  special  providence  to 
protect  this  pretty,  innocent  flower.  Alas,  alas  !  that  this 
very  providence  should  turn  traitor,  and  conspire  for  her 
ruin.  Emma  had  not  forgotten  this,  and  when  she  thought 
of  it  now  her  cheeks  tingled  with  shame,  that  she  should, 
even  in  her  remotest  thought,  harbor  an  evil  thought  against 
her  friend  and  protector.  "  We  are  often,"  says  the  old 
Doctor,  "  in  as  much  daiiger  from  the  good  as  from  the  bad 
side  of  our  nature  ;  "  and  never  was  there  a  truer  saying.  So 
with  Emma  Harlan.  The  highest  feelings  of  her  nature  were 
spinning  around  her  the  fatal  cords  which,  without  the  inter 
position  of  providence,  should  bind  her  to  destruction — the 
feelings  of  trust  and  gratitude.  And  if  all  that  is,  is  for  good, 
as  surely  must  be,  how  is  it  that  this  can  be  ?  Where  is  the 
good  ?  What  is  there  in  heaven,  or  on  earth,  or  in  the 
whole  universe  of  God,  that  can  demand  that  this  poor  little 
life  be  crushed  ?  Who  shall  be  benefited ;  what  love  shall 
be  widened  or  deepened ;  what  wrath  shall  be  appeased  ;  what 
power  shall  be  vindicated ;  what  justice  shall  be  glorified  ; 
what  suffering  shall  be  diminished ;  what  joy  increased  ; 
what  wisdom  magnified,  in  all  the  dominions  of  God,  by  this 
great-small  saciifice  ?  Just  God !  that  the  darkness  might 
be  removed,  and  that  we  might  see  the  truth. 

But  what  shall  wff  say  of  Mr.  Brooke  ?  This  girl  reposed 
•upon  his  protection  in  more  than  double  trust;  she  was 
young  and  innocent,  and  should,  find  a  guardian  in  every 
gentleman.  Mr.  Brooke  was  the  friend  of  her  mother,  and 
the  orphan  daughter  looked  to  him  with  filial  affection.  He 
was  her  pastor,  and  she  reposed  in  him  the  trust  of  confiding 


GLENCOE.  315 

innocence.  He  was  her  protector  ;  as  it  was  he,  tinder  pro 
vidence,  who  had  probably  saved  her  from  disgrace  and  ruin. 
Said  Mr.  Brooke  to  her  one  day, 

"  Once  it  was  thought  that  whatever  was  natural  was  wrong, 
that  human  love  especially  was  sinful  in  the  sight  of  God. 
But  we  have  learned  a  more  generous  religion  ;  our  aifections 
were  not  given  to  us  as  so  many  snares  to  tempt  us  into  sin. 
Our  natures  are  God-formed.  And  when  the  human  heart 
is  not  degraded  by  evil  intentions,  then,  under  God,  its  in 
stincts  are  divine.  Evil  can  only  exist  in  the  intention." 
'  Emma  thought  much  of  what  Mr.  Brooke  had  said  ;  and 
while  wondering  vaguely  at  its  application,  had  come  almost 
unconsciously  to  believe  in  the  precept.  _  Nor  let  any  sup 
pose  this  of  small  consequence  ;  far  from  it.  For,  although 
in  moments  of  fierce  temptation  the  mind  stops  not  to  reason 
carefully,  yet  it  acts  even  in  such  cases  in  a  kind  of  in 
stinctive  obedience  to  its  theoretical  beliefs,  as  the  parts  of 
the  body  act  by  instinctive  obedience  to  the  will,  without 
any  distinct  act  of  the  will  at  all.  Mr.  Brooke  had  at  first 
interested  himself  in  Emma  as  a  pretty  girl,  an  orphan,  the 
favorite  of  the  Sunday-school,  and  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Harlan.  But  the  more  he  knew  of  her  the  more  he  liked 
her ;  he  found  her  possessed  of,  native  intellect  as  rare  as  her 
disposition  was  sweet  and  amiable.  And  this  intellect  Mr. 
Brooke  felt  a  desire,  common  to  all  minds  of  learning  and 
culture,  to  see  expand  and  develope  under  his  own  direction, 
or  at  least  according  to  his  own  ideas.  Emma,  on  her  side, 
appreciated  Mr.  Brooke's  accomplishments,  gave  in  readily 
to  his  way  of  thinking,  and  thus  they  were  soon  in  complete 
sympathy.  It  is  wonderful  how  completely  and  absolutely 
one  mind,  even  of  a  high  order  itself,  may  be  under  the 
dominion,  of  another  stronger  than  itself:  not  in  the  sense 
that  one  person  may  control  another — by  means  of  visible 


316  9  A  IE  A. 

power  ;  but  how,  not  merely  its  coloring,  but  its  very  cellular 
structure  seems  to  proceed  from  the  all-powerful  and  in 
finitely  subtle  attractions  and  repulsions  of  the  stronger 
mind.  So  it  was  with  Mr.  Brooke  and  Emma  Harlan.  '1  he 
girl  had  come  to  look  up  to  Mr.  Brooke  as  her  ideal  of  a 
man. 

But  the  girl  soon  became  a  woman.  And  when  Mr. 
Brooke  dwelt  upon  her  ripe  and  luscious  beauty ;  when  he 
thought  of  her  fine  mind,  well  cultured  for  her  age,  and  felt 
the  incantation  of  her  sweet  temper,  with  the  consciousness 
too  that  much  in  both  was  due  to  his  formative  hand;  he, 
naturally  remembered  that  his  wife  was  an  invalid  who  could 
not  possibly  survive  long,  and  even  frequently  found  himself 
indulging  in  some  vague  imaginings  that  there  might  be  for 
him  in  the  future  a  lot  that  should  in  some  sense  atone  for 
the  past  blank  of  his  married  life.  And  these  vague  im 
aginings,  Mr.  Brooke,  knowing  what  must  be  in  the  near 
future,  did  not  at  all  attempt  to  put  down. 

So  Mr.  Brooke  soon  found  his  love  centered  upon  this  girl ; 
then  it  grew  into  a  passion  ;  and  then  he  determined  to  pos 
sess  her  at  all  costs.  From  sympathy,  that  is,  complete 
spiritual  accord,  to  love,  between  two  persons  capable  of 
loving,  is  a  short  way.  Mr.  Brooke  already  had  the  es 
teem,  the  confidence,  the  perfect  sympathy,  in  a  word,  of 
Emma  Harlan ;  and  to  get  her  love  only  needed  that  subtle 
conversion  of  that  feeling  which  is  made  up  of  filial  trust 
and  friendship  into  lovers'  love.  To  do  him  full  justice, 
Mr.  Brooke,  even  after  he  had  determined  to  gratify  his  own 
passion,  though  it  be  at  the  ruin  of  this  girl,  still  thought 
sometimes  of  a  possible  future  -atonement  to  her.  From  the 
moment  that  Mr.  Brooke's  passion  became  criminal,  lie 
began  to  lay  his  plans  artfully.  Without  at  all  abating  his 
parental  care,  he  now  treated  her  also  as  a  grown-up  woman. 


GLEXCOE.  317 

Sometimes,  with  the  rarest  possible  delicacy,  he  referred,  in 
low  tones  of  scarce  perceptible  pathos,  to  his  own  loneliness. 
And  sometimes  he  even  spoke  eloquently,  with  just  a  slight 
tremulousness,  of  what  might  be  done  in  this  skeptical  age 
by  a  minister  of  truly  liberal  culture  and  ardent  zeal  with  a 
companion  divinely  formed  to  share  his  labors  with  him. 
Thus  the  weeks  passed  on,  and  the  hour  approached.  Even 
in  the  midst  of  his  passion  Mr.  Brooke's  cool  judgment  did 
not  forsake  him;  he  knew  the  human  heart;  he  knew  the 
power  of  surprise  over  it.  One  afternoon  Emma  was  at  his 
house,  and  Miss  Brooke  was  not  at  home.  The  two  were  in 
the  parlor  alone.  Emma  sat  on  a  sofa,  and  Mr.  Brooke 
nearly  in  front  of  her  in  a  chair,  with  his  elbow  resting  upon 
a  table,  where  he  had  just  placed  a  volume  of  Shakspeare, 
of  which  he  had  been  rather  abstractedly  turning  the 

leaves. 

* 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Mr.  Brooke,  in  a  low,  tuneful 
voice,  "  when  you  were  here  one  afternoon  last  Slimmer  and 
I  read  to  you  from  Hamlet  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Emma,  blushing,  and  not  dreaming  that 
Mr.  Brooke  knew  the  circumstances  of  that  evening  so  well 
as  he  did.  "  I  can  never  forget  that  day,  any  more  than  I 
can  ever  repay  you  with  my  gratitude  for  that  and  many 
others;  you  were,  unconsciously,  my  guardian  spirit." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Brooke,  rising  and  moving  across  the  floor, 
"  you  have  uttered  the  very  word  that  drives  me  mad.  Your 
guardian !  Good  God  !  that  I  could  be  your  guardian  in 
fact,  always,  in  life  and  eternity."  Mr.  Brooke  walked  rapid 
ly  across  the  room,  and  stood  before  her.  "*Emma,  child," 
he  began  again  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  I  have  a  confession 
to  make  to  you ;  if  you  love  me  for  what  I  have  done  for  you, 
I  know  you  will  listen  to  me.  Child,  you  know — you  must 
know — that  my  whole  nature  has  gone  out  towards  you. 


318  gA  IRA. 

Your  own  life  has  been  woven  into  mine  ;  each  has  become 
a  part  of  the  other.  I  could  not  help  it — I  did  not  know  it 
— I  have  prayed  over  it— it  is  the  work  of  God — he  approves 
it."  He  fell  upon  his  knees  and  grasped  her  hands.  "  Oh, 
the  cursed  fate  that  separates  us  !  But  are  we  divided  for 
ever  ?  No  !  My  wife  is  an  invalid — cannot  live  but  a  few 
months  at  most — we  shall  both  be  free.  But  ah  !  the  dan 
gers,  the  difficulties,  that  may  come  in  our  way.  We  are 
here  now — let  us  bind  ourselves  to  each  other — let  us  leave 
110  escape — make  ourselves  wholly  each  other's.  See  !  I  am 
a  minister — it  will  be  lawful  in  the  sight  of  God — I  have 
asked — he  will  bless  us."  He  caught  her  in  his  strong  arms; 
they  rose  together ;  he  covered  her  face  with  kisses ;  and 
rushed  madly  along.  "'I  promise  faithfully  to  love,  honor, 
protect,  and  keep  you  as  long  as  we  shall  live  ' — promise  me 
— promise — "  She  struggled  to  free  herself  from  his  em 
brace  ;  the*  struggle  was  followed  by  unconsciousness ;  the 
charmed  bird  was  in  the  serpent's  power. 


GLENCOE.  319 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


•  here  I  and  sorrow  sit ; 


Here  is  my  throne ;  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it." 

— K.  JOHN. 

MIRABEAU  HOLMES  was  writing  for  several  magazines,  and 
had  also  been  working  hard  upon  his  "  History  of  the  Com 
mune."  He  found  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  take  a 
month's  re£t ;  and  he  made  a  visit  to  his  old  home  at  "  Ashton," 
and  then  went  among  the  mountains  in  the  north  of  the 
State. 

"  I  had  hardly  realized  before,"  said  he  to  Marian  Malcomb 
one  beautiful  night,  while  they  sat  on  a  rustic  settee  in  the 
flower-garden,  "  how  infinitely  removed  we  are  even  from  the 
near  past." 

"  Oh,  I  should  rather  think  that  the  true  past  is  never 
away  from  us — that  it  is  ever  with  us,  to  strengthen  us,  to  add 
to  our  stock  of  happiness,  to  make  us  more  hopeful  of  the 
future." 

"  You  are  right,  too.  In  that  sense,  the  past  is  ever  with 
us.  Nothing  that  was  worthy,  nothing  that  was  good  or  true 
in  the  past,  ever  dies,  or  can  die.  It  all  remains  in  the 
world,  and  works  for  good,  through  endless  changes.  But 
what  I  spoke  of  was  the  absolute  cutting  off  of  our  own  ac 
tual,  individual  existence,  even  from  the  very  last  moment 
that  we  can  almost  catch  as  it  flies." 

"  How  long  did  you  stay  at  your  old  home  ?  " 

"  Not  long — only  a  few  days." 

"  That  is  a  pretty  name — '  Ashton.'  Was  it  long  since  you 
had  been  there  ?  " 


320 

"  Oh,  no  ;  but  it  seemed  a  great  while.  Fifteen  years  ago 
my  father  died.  I  have  told  you  he  was  a  doctor!  Well,  1 
was  a  small  boy  then,  but  I  had  learned  to  tamper  with  his 
medicines,  and  I  remember  especially  that  I  had  just  learned 
that  nitrate  of  silver  would  turn  things  black.  It  was  won 
derful  to  me  that  a  substance  as  clear  as  water  should  do  so, 
and  1  marked  up  a  great  many  things  by  way  of  experiment. 
My  father's  death  naturally  made  a  great  impression  on  my 
mind;  and  I  had  just  then  got  a  notion  of  the  meaning  of 
our  calendar.  I  was  afraid  I  should  forget  the  year  ;  and  so 
I  took  a  vial  of  the  nitrate  of  silver  and  a  little  mop  and  went 
out  and  wrote  under  the  window  sill — it  was  an  old-fashioned 
white  house — in  great  round  figures,  1858.  I  went  to  look 
at  the  place  the  other  day,  and  there  they  were,  1858 — look 
ing  wonderingly  at  me  like  a  surprised,  overgrown  boy.  And 
I  looked  at  them — I  don't  know  how  I  looked." 

"  Why,  I  heard  you  say  once  that  you  had  no  special  at 
tachment  for  place,  that  you  believed  it  unphilosophical." 
Mirabeau  recollected  instantly  to  have  made  this  remark  to 
to  her  at  "  Elkton,"  not  long  after  he  had  known  her ;  and 
lie  felt  glad  that  she  should  remember  what  he  had  said  so 
long  ago. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered;  "I  tried  not  to  have;  but  one 
feels,  in  spite  of  one's  self." 

"  So  you  have  come  to  see  the  truth  of  what  the  old  Doc 
tor  used  to  tell  you  all,  have  you?  Don't  you  remember? 
Bobert  says  he  used  to  tell  you  that  the  feelings  often  furnish 
quite  as  sure  a  basis  to  build  upon  as  the  reason." 

"  No  ;  I  did  not  exactly  mean  that ;  but  that,  owing,  I  doubt 
not,  mainly  to  education,  we  cannot  always  get  rid  of  a 
feeling,  although  reason  should  de'moiistrate  it  absurd." 

"  I  have  been  soinewere  too." 

"Where?" 


GLENCOE.  321 

"  To  Elkton." 

"Elkton?" 

"  Yes  ;  why  do  you  look  surprised  ?  " 

"  When  were  you  there  ?  " 

"  Last  Thursday  ;  we  were  up  at  my  uncle's,  and  came  by 
there." 

"  Did  you  go  to  the  river?  " 

"  Yes  ;  alone.  And  the  river  was  humming  the  same  low 
sweet  tune  that  you  taught  me  to  listen  to  and  interpret, 
when  we  were  there  more  than  two  years  ago." 

"  And  did  you  remember  then  the  evening  we  were 
there?" 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  wished  I  could  see  the  sun  set  again ;  but 
had  to  come  away." 

"  Well  well.  I  thought  the  charm  about  the  place  lingered 
wonderfully  fresh  and  perfect." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  I  was  there_myself  on  Friday — the  very  day  after 
you  left." 

"  You  were  there  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  I  looked  in  the  sand  for  your  track,  made 
there  over  two  years  ago.  And  when  I  found  something 
that  looked  like  it,  and  then  stopped  and  thought  of  how 
long  ago  it  had  been,  imagine  how  absurd  I  felt !  And  it 
was  yours,  sure  enough.  How  I  wish  I  had  been  a  day 
earlier  !  " 

"  How  I  wish  yon  had,  or  that  I  had  been  a  day  later. 
What  on  earth  were  you  doing  away  up  there  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  thought  you  could  hardly  have  need  to  ask.  But 
I  will  tell  you.  Because  it  was  there  that  I  felt  the  first 
thrill  of  a  new  life.  It  was  there  that  my  soul  first  saw  its 
ideal,  and  made  its  first  offering  of  love.  I  loved  you  then ; 
and  in  all  the  changes  that  have  come  over  nie  since,  my 


322  gA  IKA. 

love  to  you  has  been  constant ;  it  has  known  no  change,  ex 
cept  to  grow  stronger  and  deeper.  I  offer  you  my  love,  my 
life.  And  if  you  will  give  me  your  confidence,  your  love,  I 
declare  to  you  that  I  will  make  my  own  worthy  of  you." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Marian  looked  down,  and 
there  was  a  faint  crimson  in  her  cheek.  Mirabeau  looked 
intensely  in  her  face.  Marian  raised  her  great,  lustrous,  dark 
eyes,  and  answered,  in  a  voice  low  and  unsteady  with  emotion : 

"  I  cannot  express  to  you  all  that  I  feel.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  I  appreciate  the  undeserved  honor  you  do  me  by 
making  me  the  offer  you  do.  And  I  should  be  untrue  to 
myself,  as  well  as  unworthy  of  your  slightest  consideration, 
if  I  did  not  say  how  much  I  honor  and  esteem  you.  But  more 
than  that  I  cannot  say."  Mirabeau  was  both  startled  and 
dismayed.  He  had  thought  that  he  coiild  not  be  mistaken 
— he  was  sure  that  this  girl  returned  his  love.  But  he  knew 
that  these  words  which  he  heard  were  no  idle  words.  Here 
was  no  fair-haired  boy  and  thoughtless  girl — no  awkw;ml 
declarations,  blushes,  chokings,  timid  half-avowals.  These 
two  people  had  some  idea  of  the  reality  of  life,  and  each  felt 
that  this  was  probably  the  most  important  moment  in  their 
lives.  They  knew  somewhat  of  each  other's  chai-acter,  and 
they  esteemed,  nay,  they  loved  each  other  too !  Mirabeau 
was  not  excited,  and  his  words  were  measured  and  slow : 

"  You  cannot  say  more  ?  You  do  not  give  me  your  love. 
But  you  will  give  me  a  promise — of  something  in  the  future. 
See  !  I  have  given  you  my  whole  life — all  my  energies, 
my  ambition,  my  hopes,  my  love.  And  will  you  not  even 
give  me  a  single  hope  ?  " 

"  I  cannot." 

"  But  you  may  change  ;  you  do  "not  say  that  you  may  not 
change  this  decision  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  cannot  say  that." 


GLENCOE.  323 

"  Then  tell  me  this :  is  there  another  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  Then  I  will  yet  win  your  love."  They  rose,  walked  to 
the  house  in  silence,  pressed  each  other's  hand,  and  parted 
without  a  word.  It  was  a  calm,  beautiful  night,  and  Mira- 
beau  walked  slowly  home,  thinking  deeply  of  the  events  just 
added  to  his  life-history.  And  Marian  Malcomb  ran  up-stairs, 
and  sat  at  her  window,  and  thought  too.  She  was  not 
ignorant  of  Mirabeau's  love  ;  nor,  indeed,  since  that  evening 
at  Mr.  Brooke's,  when  he  had  spoken  of  the  religion  of  the 
Commune,  had  she  thought  of  much  else. 

Said  Mrs.  Sutherland  to  Mirabeau  one  day,  "  What  have 
you  done  with  your  idea  of  opening  the  State  University  to 
women  ?  " 

"  I  have  it  yet.     But  I  try  to  give  everybody  a  copy." 

"  I  am  going  to  help  you." 

"  Then  the  work  will  succeed.  I  knew  you  would.  This 
is  exactly  what  has  been  wanting.  To  all  our  arguments  we 
have  received  the  stereotyped  answer  that  ( the  women  do 
not  ask  it,  do  not  even  want  it.'  Now  we  shall  say  to  them — 
'  Behold  !  the  representative  woman  of  the  State  demands  it 
in  the  name  of  all.'  " 

"  Now,  that  is  the  best  compliment  J  have  heard." 

"  That  gives  me  an  idea  that  it  must  be  very  good." 

"  No  ;    I  do  not  like  compliments." 

"  Mine  was  to  the  women  of  the  State." 

"  Then,  as  their  representative,  I  thank  you  in  the  name 
of  all.  But  where  is  your  friend,  Mr.  Van  Comer  ?  I  have 
not  seen  him  of  late.  Stop — don't  tell  me  that  I  have  heard 
from  him,  though.  I  know  I  have.  I  read  his  pretty  little 
poem  in  the  last  New  Monthly.  It  seems  scarcely  possible 
that  the  author  of  such  a  tender,  sweet  little  poem  could 
write  such  a  savage  criticism." 


324:  <}A    TEA. 

"  But,  savage  as  it  is,  is  there  riot  some  truth,  in  that  criti 
cism  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,  much.  He  says  my  book  '  begins  with 
an  exclamation,'  which  is  literally  true — 'and  ends  with  a 
dash,'  which  also  has  much  truth  in  it,  for  I  wrote  in  great 
hurry.  He  pronounces  this  inferior  in  power  to  my  first 
book,  which  is  certainly  true  ;  though,  as  he  says,  the  '  hypo 
crites  and  pharisees '  will  not  see  it." 

"  He  says  he  hopes  you  will  write  again." 

"  So  I  shall ;  and  better  than  ever.  But  I  do  not  pro 
mise  entirely  '  to  flee  from  conservatism.'  " 

"  Might  not  Van  Comer  be  afraid  to  cume  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  tell  him  to  come.  I  can  at  least  thank  him  for  one 
thing  :  he  treats  me  as  an  equal  in  the  field  of  letters ;  and 
does  not  condescend  to  any  of  those  absurd  flatteries  and 
empty  compliments,  which  even  some  of  my  friends  have 
called  '  gallantry  and  manly  loyalty  to  the  sex.'  I  hope  Mr. 
Van  Comer  was  correct  when  he  said  he  believed  I  would 
despise  all  such.  Mr.  Paul  H.  Hayne  thinks  he  only  showed 
in  this  his  ignorance  of  the  '  female  literary  natm-e ; '  but,  in 
thinking  so,  it  strikes  me  Mr.  Hayne  only  acted  upon  Mrs. 
Peyser's-  notion  '  that  the  women  were  made  to  match  the 
men.'  But  the  New  Monthly  has  ceased.  It  seems  strange 
that  we  cannot  have  even  one  first-rate  magazine  or  review  in 
the  South." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  strange.  It  is  impossible  that  any 
literary  undertaking  of  that  sort  should  prosper  in  a  purely 
conservative  atmosphere.  If  we  had  a  magazine  in  this  city 
it  would  not  survive  six  months  unless  it  was  conducted  on 
the  plan  of  the  Contemporary  Review" 

"  I  understand  you,  and  approve  the  plan.  I  hope  we 
shall  have  such  an  one  soon.  It  would  help  us  in  our 
University  plans." 


GLKNCOE.  325 

"  We  have  got  one .  first-rate  Review  :  TJie  Southern 
Review.  But  that  does  not  belong  to  any  particular  country ; 
it  belongs  to  the  world."  . 

When  Emma  Harlan  recovered  from  the  momentary 
stupor  which  had  seized  her,  she  sat  upright  and  stared 
about  her  with  a  mingled  look  of  bewilderment,  horror,  and 
pain.  Her  eyes  were  wild  and  dry,  and  had  that  intense 
expression  of  wonder  and  pain  that  you  have  seen  in  dumb 
animals  under  the  most  scientific  tortures  by  the  knife,  pin 
cers,  and  battery  of  the  scientist.  Mr.  Brooke  knew  that 
this  extreme-  tension  of  the  nervous  system  could  not  last. 
A  revulsion  of  feeling  must  come.  It  might  come  in  passion 
ate  exclamations,  reproaches,  curses,  tears,  faintings,  and 
even  delirium.  And  she  was  in  his  own  house  ;  everything 
might  be  found  out.  Mr.  Brooke  was  frightened ;  the 
miserable  villain  was  ever  thinking  of  himself.  Leave  for  a 
moment,  reader,  this  scene,  and  recall  another  life-tragedy 
enacted  near  a  century  ago  under  the  walls  of  the  frowning 
old  Castle  of  Joux.  Think  of  the  sad-heroic  little  woman, 
Sophie  de  Monnier — or  rather,  Sophie  de  RufFey,  for  all  the 
laws  of  Church  and  State  could  not  make  her  the  wife  of  old 
Monnier — and  mad  Gabriel  Honore.  By  his  stormy  eloquence 
and  tropic  passion  this  n\ad  Gabriel,  this  tiger-faced  god  of 
the  Tennis  Court,  wins  the  love  and  so-called  innocence  of 
this  sad-heroic  woman.  Think  of  this  man,  defying  alike  the 
penalties  of  law,  disgrace,  Castles  of  Joux,  and  blood-hounds 
of  Rhadaman thine  father,  scaling  the  walls  of  the  garden  at 
Poiitarlier,  and,  Sophie  in  his  arms,  borne  upon  the  wings  of 
love  and  despair,  flying  over  the  hills  towards  Holland. 
Who  says  that  Mirabeau,  at  that  moment,  was  not  a  grand 
man?  I  say  he  was.  And  I  should  say  the  same  thing  of 
Mr.  Brooke  if  he  had  acted  similarly. 

I  go  thus  far  against  the  hypocrites  and    pharisecs.     I 


320  gA  IKA. 

would  not  excuse  him  for  what  he  had  done.  Mr.  Brooke 
Irnd  committed  a  great  wrong — a  great  wrong  against  this 
poor  girl.  But  if  he  had  fallen  at  her  feet,  and  renewed  to 
her  the  vow  he  had  just  taken,  which  surely  was  only  the 
more  sacred  that  it  was  not  written  down  by  priest  or  law 
yer  ;  or  if  he  had  declared  his  wish,  for  her,  to  defy  the  law, 
the  church,  and  society  ;  or  if  in  burning  eloquence  he  had 
proposed  to  abandon  everything,  and  to  fly  into  an  unknown 
country,  where  they  should  live  their  life  out  with  each 
other  and  for  eajh  other  alone  ;  whatever  wrong  he  may 
have  committed  already,  at  that  moment,  I  say,  Mr.  Brooke 
would  have  been  heroic.  Nor  does  it  matter  at  all  that  his 
proposition  should  be  scorned,  as  in  this  case  it  certainly 
•would  have  been. 

But  Mr.  Brooke  had  ruined  this  poor  girl,  and  was  at 
this  moment  fearful  of  detection  and  thinking  of  his  own 
safety.  In  one  sense,  at  least,  Mr.  Brooke  was  satisfied  :  he 
had  carried  his  point ;  henceforth  the  girl  was  completely  in 
his  power.  But  it  was  necessary  that  Emma  be  got  away 
somehow.  Miss  Brooke  had  only  gone  to  ride  ;  she  would 
soon  return ;  and  there  might  be  a  scene.  They  sat  in 
silence  several  seconds,  Mr.  Brooke  looking  solicitous, 
Emma  the  picture  of  doubting  wonder  and  agony,  when  Mr. 
Brooke  began:  "-My  child —  '  But  the  girl,  with  a  cry  of 
horror,  sprang  from  her  seat  land  darted  out  of  the  room. 
Mr.  Brooke  followed  her  until  he  saw  her  enter  her  mother's 
gate,  and  returned  home.  He  had  not  calculated  upon  this 
denouement ;  he  was  too  good  a  judge  of  human  nature. 
He  knew  well  that  when  one  has  done  wrong,  when  one 
has  committed  even  a  high  crime,  the  feeling  immediately 
after,  generally,  is  a  feeling  rather  of  surprise  that  the  thing 
was  so  easily  done,  a  kind  of  questioning  whether  there  was 
not  really  much  more  in  the  dread  of  doing  than  in  the  act 


GLENCOE.  327 

itself.  Even  the  cold-blooded  murderer,  the  moment  after 
the  deed  is  committed,  rather  wonders  that  so  small  a  matter 
has  been  so  magnified.  It  is  afterwards  that  he  finds  him 
self  seized  upon  by  terrors  undreamed  of.  Not  that  I  would 
say  that  Emma  Harlan  committed  any  crime,  great  or  small. 
"Was  this  poor  girl  criminal  or  unfortunate  ?  Is  it  a  crime  in 
heaven  to  trust  too  far  what  you  believe  to  be  great  and  pure 
and  good  ?  The  old  Doctor  was  right — "  We  are  in  as  much 
danger  from  the  good  as  from  the  bad  side  of  our  nature." 
Consider  also  whether  this  fifth  act  in  the  girl's  life-tragedy 
was  not  a  necessity  from  all  that  had  preceded.  Verily, 
verily,  "  is  not  the  poorest  day  that  passes  over  us  the 
conflux  of  two  eternities,,  made  up  of  currents  that  issue 
from  the  remotest  past,  and  flow  onwards  into  the  remotest 
future  ?  " 

There  was  grief  in  the  little  cottage  on  Ivy  street. 
Silent.  Deep.  Mother  and  daughter.  Let  the  curtain  be 
lowered.  Leave  them  alone.  Alone  with  God. 

Mr.  Brooke  heard  of  what  was  transpiring  at  the  little 
cottage.  He  dared  not  go  there.  He  was  sobered  now. 
He  began  to  calculate.  He  feared  discovery.  He  thought 
of  his  family  ;  of  his  own  disgrace.  At  first,  as  we  have 
seen,  he  thought  that  one  thing  was  sure — the  girl  was  now 
completely  in  his  power.  And  even  for  a  few  days  after 
wards  there  haunted  him  occasionally  the  ghost  of  a  resolu 
tion  to  redeem,  finally,  his  promise.  But  soon  all  such  re 
solves  altogether  left  him.  It  was  unsafe  to  eo  farther. 

o  o 

Even  possible  prison-walls  loomed  dimly  up  before  him  in 
the  future. 


328  CA   IRA. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Prom  yonder  shrine  I  heard  a  hollow  sound :   ' 

"  Come,  sister,  come !  (it  said,  or  seemed  to  say), 

Thy  place  is  here,  sad  sister,  come  away ; 

Once,  like  thyself,  I  trembled,  wept,  and  pray'd, 

Love's  victim  then,  though  now  a  sainted  maid :  ' 

But  all  is  calm  in  this  eternal  sleep, 

Here  grief  forgets  to  groan,  and  love  to  weep ; 

E'en  superstition  loses  every  fear : 

For  God,  not  man,  absolves  our  frailties  here." 

ELOISE  TO  ABELABD. 

WE  must  now  return  to  the  little  cottage  on  Ivy  street. 
One  doubts  the  necessity  of  giving  the  closing  scenes.  Are 
they  not  inevitable  ?  And  have  they  not  been  witnessed 
many  a  time  ?  Witnessed  ?  Yes ;  what  may  be  seen. 
Felt  ?  Never.  Think  what  it  would  be  if  poet  could  ever 
get  into  language  one  of  these  life-tragedies !  What  can 
one  say  but,  waiting  for  death  ?  So  it  was  with  Emma  Har- 
lan.  Sweet  rose  pf  May,  blasted  ere  the  pearl-glittering 
gossamer  of  the  early  morning  unveiled  thy  perfect  beauty, 
let  thine  elegy  be  unsung  till  the  world  shall  know  that  it  is 
not  criminal  to  be  unfortunate ;  or,  better,  till  it  shall  curse 
all  laws  but  the  laws  which  love  has  made. 

Poor  Emma  did  not  excuse  herself;  nay,  she  rather  con 
demned  herself  more  severely  than  any  just  judge  will  con 
demn  her.  And  yet,  there  would  come  up  from  the  depths 
of  her  nature  sometimes  a  faint  wail  of  remonstrance,  that 
she  had  intended  no  evil.  But  for  these  remonstrances  she 
only  condemned  herself  the  morer  It  is  well  that  the  all- 
wise  and  all-benevolent  God  of  the  universe  remains  entirely 
unchanged  by  all  the  hideous  conceptions  formed  of  him  by 


GLENCOE.  329 

in)  pious  and  ignorant  men  who  assume  to  speak  as  his  priests 
and  prophets.  It  is  well  that  the  god  Emma  Harlan  had 
been  taught  to  serye  is  not  the  God  of  Heaven  at  all,  but 
only  the  hideous  idol  of  the  dark-minded,  savage  old  Hebrews. 
Only  see  :  the  vicious  system  which  she  had  been  taught, 
first  made  her  misfortune,  the  wreck  of  her  young  life,  not 
only  possible  but  necessary,  and  then  made  her  believe  it  the 
greatest  of  crimes.  But  so  it  was.  All  the  light  was  gone 
out  of  her  "life.  Even  the  pleasures  of  hope,  the  last  stay  of 
poor  mortals,  were  all  gone.  The  glowing  pleasures  of 
young  wedded  life;  the  serener  joys  of  the  matron  mother; 
the  affectionate  honors  of  venerable  age — all  were  gone  for 
ever.  The  charm  of  music  was  turned  to  discord ;  the 
woods  and  flowers  grew  pale  in  the  sickened  light ;  the 
mirrory  lakes  and  streams  reflected  only  images  of  woe. 
The  gladness  of  companionship  was  hushed  ;  the  sympathies 
of  friendship  were  dried  up ;  and  the  light  of  love  fled  from 
the  orbit  of  existence.  She  would  be  pointed  out  in  the 
crowd ;  simpering  young  ladies,  her  former  companions  and 
whilome  friends,  would  step  into  the  stores  to  make  room 
for  her ;  Christian  women — legally  above  suspicion — would 
elevate  their  consecrated  skirts  and  give  her  the  whole  of 
the  sidewalk ;  and  even  the  elect  house  of  God  was  too  good 
for  her  to  come  to  worship  or  ask  for  pardon  in.  But  God 
will  protect  thee,  dear  Emma.  He  will  be  with  thee  at  the 
last.  He  sees  thy  pure  and  gentle  heart.  The  darkness 
which  envelopes  thee  comes  not  from  him.  Only  light  pro 
ceeds  from  Heaven.  As  the  fleecy  cloud,  pressed  down  to 
earth  by  the  thick  darkness,  rises,  dissolved  from  earthy  ele 
ments,  to  mingle  in  celestial  light,  so  shall  thy  pure  spirit, 
frei'd  from  material  elements  of  misfortune  and  suffering, 
rise  mid  enter  into  the  paradise  of  the  upper  air. 

In  all  her  unsung  and  unstoried  suffering,  Emma  thought 


330  gA  IKA. 

not  so  much  of  her  own  as  of  her  mother's  woes.  Poor  old 
mother !  thou  too  hast  known  somewhat  of  the  tragedy  of 
life.  How  joyously  beautiful  was  thy  morning !  How 
stormy  thy  noon !  How  mournfully  the  dark  curtains  of 
evening  are  closing  around  thee.  Her  hair  had  already  been 
richly  silvered ;  now  it  was  white — before  the  dews  of  late 
evening  came  to  bleach  it.  She  grew  weaker  and  weaker 
each  day.  She  too  was  waiting  for  death.  And  thus  the 
weeks  and  months  passed  on. 

When  it  was  known  that  Emma  Harlan  was  a  mother,  of 
course  it  was  not  any  longer  lawful  to  visit  Mrs.  Harlan. 
This  with  the  great  crowd — aristocrats,  as  well  as  honest 
men  and  women.  But  always  there  are  some  exceptions. 
Always  there  are  some  whose  broad  sympathies  and  lofty 
spirit  raise  them  above  the  crowd.  There  were  even  a  few 
here  in  this  Gate  City — such  men  as  Mr.  Malcomb  and  the 
noble  General  Clement ;  not  to  mention  Mirabeau  Holmes — 
whose  sympathies  knew  no  limit  but  the  Jimit  of  creation — 
and  his  young  friends ;  and  such  women — alas !  how  small, 
how  sadly  small  the  number — as  Mrs.  Sutherland.  These 
also,  the  world  over,  no  matter  what  their  faith  or  what  their 
creed,  like  Victor  Hugo — who  would  be  a  god  in  a  world  of 
angels — have  a  maxim:  Pro  jure  contra  legem.  Said  3 Irs. 
Sutherland  one  night  to  a  question  of  a  lady-friend  as  to 
whether  she  would  visit  Mrs.  Harlan's  cottage  any  more : 
"  These  people  need  sympathy.  The  world's,  they  will  not 
get ;  my  own,  they  shall  have.  I  have  heard  this  poor  girl's 
story;  I  heard  it  from  herself;  I  will  not  judge  her,  but 
leave  it  to  God.  If  she  is  not  so  much  guilty  as  unfortu 
nate,  all  will  admit  that  she  deserves  sympathy ;  if  she  be 
guilty,  then  so  much  the  more  her_need  of  sympathy.  And 
then  there  is  the  gray-haired,  dying  mother.  Yes  ;  I  will  go 
to  them."  She  went ;  and  I  think  if  spirits  remember  the 


GLENCOE.  331 

deeds  of  this  life,  this  will  not  then  be  the  least  precious 
gem  in  her  crown  of  memory.  But  some  time  afterwards,  . 
when  the  Reverend  Melancthoii  Brooke  thoiight  it  necessary 
to  make  a  public  statement  of  the  whole  unfortunate  affair, 
one  of  the  daily  newspapers,  claiming  to  be  the  leading  paper 
of  the  State,  published  a  long  editorial  in  connection  with 
the  statement,  in  which  this  representative  paper  said, 
among  many  other  similar  sayings  :  "  This  is  the  most  unfor 
tunate  case  that  has  ever  come  to  our  knowledge — unfortu 
nate  for  the  victim  [the  minister  !],  unfortunate  for  his 
family,  unfortunate  for  the  church  and  the  cause  of  Chris 
tianity.  We  have  read  Mr.  Brooke's  statement  carefully, 
and  as  it  bears  upon  it  the  stamp  of  truth  we  cannot  doubt 
it.  He  confesses  that  he  was  tempted,  and  fell.  Remember 
ing  the  weaknesses  of  our  poor  fallen  nature,  and  remember 
ing  that  Satan  is  ever  present  with  lures  and  snares,  whereby 
the  best  of  us,  taken  unawares,  may  be  tempted  and  fall, 
shall  we  not,  following  the  example  of  the  Master,  who  knew 
the  weaknesses  of  his  fallen  creatures,  and  the  many  and 
strong  temptations  to  which  they  were  subject — shall  we  not, 
in  the  genuine  spirit  of  our  merciful  religion,  judge  this  man 
rather  in  commiseration  than  in  wrath  ?  For  our  part, 
though  we  hold  him  not  excusable,  we  have  for  him  far 
more  of  pity  than  blame.  But  as  for  this  wicked  woman, 
this  Delilah,  who  by  her  lascivious  charms  has  sediiced  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel,  and  brought  on  all  this  shame  and 
ruin,  a,s  to  her  deserts,  there  can  be  but  one  opinion.  It- 
seems  that  there  ought  to  be  some  punishment  more  severe 
than  death,  by  which  she  could  be  made  to  expiate,  in  part, 
her  crime,  and  to  atone  for  the  ruin  she  has  wrought."  I 
have  given  this  extract  from  the  paper  claiming  to  be  the 
exponent  of  public  opinion,  certainly  the  organ  of  conserva 
tism  and  orthodoxy,  in  the  State,  in  its  own  words.  For 


332  £A   IEA. 

the  credit  of  Humanity,  and  for  the  good  name  especially  of 
'my  own  people,  I  wished  to  omit  it.  For  the  sake  of  truth, 
and  the  correctness  of  this  history,  I  have  given  it.  The 
poor  "  seduced  minister  of  the  Gospel "  deserves  only 
"  pity."  But  as  for  this  artful  wretch,  this  Delilah,  with  her 
lascivious  charms  (only  poor,  little  Emma  Harlan,  dear 
reader,  sweet  as  a  rose  of  May,  gentle  as  the  softest  zephyr 
of  spirit-land,  and  pure  as  the  heavenly  snow  fresh-fallen 
upon  the  mountain  of  the  upper  air,  ruined  by  the  man  in 
whom  she  had  all  her  life  been  taught  to  repose  her  trust,  as 
the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  good  and  true,  the  represen 
tative  of  God  upon  earth),  this  seducer  of  a  faithful  minister 
.of  the  Gospel,  for  her,  surely  there  ou(jlit  to  be  some  punish 
ment  severer  than  death  !  Just  God  !  Aliens!  Times  will 
be  better  after  a  while. 

But  what  to  some  will  appear  the  hardest  trial  of  all  was 
yet  in  store  for  Emma  Harlan.  She  must  tell  the  story  of 
her  shame  publicly  to  the  world.  Her  own  tender  nature 
would  have  shrunk  from  this  in  horror ;  for  herself  she 
would  rather  have  endured  the  taunts,  and  scorns,  and  lies 
of  the  world,  patiently  waiting  the  deliverance  of  death  and 
the  judgment  of  a  merciful  judge  hereafter.  And  though 
she  felt  and  appreciated  with  every  grateful  feeling  the  noble 
humanity  of  the  few  friends  who,  faithful  to  the  divine  in 
stincts  of  their  nature,  came  to  offer  her  their  sympathy  ; 
and  though  urged  by  them  to  demonstrate  before  the  country 
that  herself  was  the  victim,  and  her  reverend  seducer  the 
criminal,  she  steadfastly  refused  to  do  so.  But  then  there 
was  another  argument.  What  of  her  child  ?  Poor  Emma  ! 
She  herself  could  endure  all  the  scorn,  all  the  contempt,  all 
the  slanders  of  the  world,  weir-knowing  that  outside  of  ln-r 
three  or  four  friends,  who  already  knew  the  truth,  it  mat 
tered  little  whether  she  was  criminal  or  unfortunate,  and 


GLENCOE.  333 

believing,  too,  that  for  hei',  death  would  soon  come  to  her 
relief  and  shut  the  scene.  As  for  her  dear  old  mother,  she 
too  was  come  to  the  river-brink,  and  must  soon  pass  over. 
The  father  was  long  since  dead;  and  the  four  gallant 
brothers  were  sleeping  in  the  sacred  bosom  of  Virginia. 
But  there  was  her  pretty,  innocent  child,  a  child  of  misfor 
tune — next  to  the  greatest  crime  in  the  social  as  well  as  in 
the  penal  code.  Was  not  such  a  vindication  due  to  him  ? 
Whatever  the  world  might  say,  he  at  least  would  have  faith 
in  his  mother ;  he  would  believe  what  she  said.  And  he 
would  know  too  that  it  was  for  him  that  his  mother  had 
faced  tliis  last  great  trial.  The  time  would  come  when  he 
would  know  the  sad  story  of  his  mother's  life  ;  and  when  he 
reflected  upon  this  last  act  of  heroic  devotion ;  when  he 
knew  how  hard  it  was  for  her  gentle  spirit  to  endure  this 
crowning  torture;,  and  when  he  remembered  that  it  was  for 
him  that  it  was  endured ;  then,  he  would  forgive  her  every 
thing  ;  he  would  weep  over  her  misfortunes  and  sufferings ; 
he  would  plant  roses  upon  Jier  grave ;  and  whatever  she 
might  be  to  the  world,  to  him  she  would  be  a  pure  and  gen 
tle  spirit,  ever  lingering  near  to  guard  him  with  her  prayers 
and  love.  Yes ;  it  was  worth  the  sacrifice.  For  what  is 
there  to  which  a  child,  aye,  or  a  boy,  or  a  man,  may  cling, 
when  he  has  lost  faith  in  his  mother?  Is  it  not  to  her  that 
he  first  looks  as  to  a  divinity  ?  And  is  it  not  from  hence 
that  come  those  noble  ideas,  the  striving  for,  and  the  hope 
of  which,  make  life  earnest  and  divine?  How  shall  a  child 
have  faith  in  Humanity,  or  faith  in  God,  if  he  have  not 
faith  in  his  mother  ?  Such  considerations,  and  many  others, 
came  quickly  into  the  mind  of  Emma  Harlan.  It  might  be 
that,  in  the  course  of  this  child's  life,  he  too  would  be  forced 
to  drink  deeply  the  bitterness  of  sorrow.  He  might  be  de 
feated  in  his  hopes  and  aims;  he  might  ~be  crushed  to  eanth 


334  gA  IRA. 

by  adverse  fortune ;  he  might  be  deserted  by  friends  and 
abandoned  by  fortune.  Where  then  should  he  look  for  sym 
pathy  ?  To  what  final  stay  should  cling  his  "faith?  He 
should  turn  to  the  memory  of  his  mother's  love,  and  in  her 
divinity  should  he  rest  his  faith.  Noble  young  mother ! 
Gentle,  sad -heroic  spirit !  Though  the  ignorance  and  super 
stition  of  men  have  shut  thy  little  life  in  a  globe  of  dark 
ness,  above  thee  is  a  world  of  tight.  For  this  act  alone 
thou  wouldst  merit  immortality.  For  this  alone  the  angels 
would  meet  thee  at  the  gates,  and  welcome  thee  with  a  new 
song  into  the  joys  of  Paradise.  .  .  . 

"  Once  I  said,"  said  Mirabeau  Holmes  to  Marian  Malcomb 
one  evening  when  they  were  seated  on  the  same  bench  in  the 
flower-yard  where  we  have  seen  them  once,  and  where  they 
have  been  many  times  since.  "  I  once  said  to  myself,  '  I  am 
sufficient  to  myself.'  And  I  was  proud  in  the  belief.  I  felt 
within  myself  the  sufficient  springs  of  my  own  ambition  and 
happiness.  But  I  confess  to  you  to-night  how  greatly  I  was 
mistaken.  No  !  I  am  not  sufficient  to  myself.  But  your  life 
has  become  so  interwoven  with  my  own  that  I  can  see  no 
future  without  your  companionship." 

"  I  did  not  think  to  hear  you  say  this.  I  thought  you  had 
a  noble  ambition  in  life,  and  that  you  would  fulfil  it.  You 
will  not  be  hindered  by  so  small  an  obstacle  as  I. " 

l(  So  small  an  obstacle  !  Ah  !  Do  you  remember  that 
afternoon  at  the  river  ?  From  that  hour  I  have  had  no  hope, 
no  aim,  in  which  you  have  not  filled  the  greater  part.  True, 
I  have  indulged  in  some  hopes  of  doing  somewhat  in  the 
cause  of  truth  and  Humanity  ;  how  else  had  I  dared  to  hope 
for  your  love?  But  without  you  I  see  no  future.  If  you 
ask  me  what  right  I  had  so  early  to  hope  for  your  love,  I 
Bay  I  don't  know,  only  I  felt  that  our  lives  were  made 
for  each  other.  I  loved  you  then,  and  resolved  to  prove  my 


GLENCOE.  335 

worthiness  of  you  ;  I  can  only  answer  for  my  constant  and 
complete  devotion  to  you.  And  tell  me,  now,  has  there  not 
been  a  time  when  you  met  my  complete  and  full  devotion  with 
some  feeling  of  return  ?  " 

"  Must  I  answer  that  ?  " 

"  Is  it  too  much  for  me  to  ask  ?  " 

"  No ;  forgive  me  for  the  question.  You  have  been  so 
honorable  to  me,  and  I  believe  so  true  and  earnest,  that  I 
could  not,  if  I  wished,  be  less  so  to  you.  I  will  not  say  that 
there  was  not  a  time  when  I  met  your  love  with  a  feeling  of 
more  than  esteem." 

"  There  was  a  time — there  was  a  time — tell  me,  Marian,  tell 
me,  my  life,  my  darling — if  that  time  is  not  now  also  ?  or 
what  I  have  done  to  forfeit  your  love.  I  would  rather  have 
forfeited  my  life.  If  there  be  anything,  it  shall  be  undone  ; 
I  will  unlive  the  day  that  gave  it  existence.  But  it  cannot 
be.  "I  have  only  changed  in  my  love  to  you  by  its  growing 
with  my  life,  by  its  becoming  more  single  and  better.  Long 
ago  I  said,  '  now  I  love  you  best ; '  and  many  times  since,  I 
have  said  so  ;  it  is  only  now  I  can  see  how  small  it  then  was 
by  comparison  with  my  love  for  you  now.  Say  to  me  that 
that  time  is  now." 

"  And  if  I  should  ?  " 

"  Then  you  would  name  the  day  when  we  should  consecrate 
ourselves  to  each  other,  and  when  our  life  should  begin.  But 


"  No ;  I  cannot." 

"  Is  it,  then,  that  after  all  this  I  am  simply  to  be  told,  no  ?  " 

"  Some  time  ago,  in  this  very  place,  you  remember,  I  told 
you  that  I  could  not  give  you  any  encouragement  to  hope  for 
what  you  now  ask.  If  I  have  failed,  you  must  know  how 
much  pain  it  gives  me  ;  and  will  you  not  spare  me  ?  " 

"Spare  you   pain!     Good  God!      How  willingly  would 


.336  gA  IRA. 

I  take  upon  myself  ten  times  every  one  that  shall  ever  com« 
across  your  life,  if  you  might  only  be  perfectly  happy.  How 
can  you  ask  me  that  ?  Too  often  already,  I  fear,  have  I  told 
you  how  willingly  I  would  lay  at  your  feet  every  energy  and 
every  hope  of  my  life." 

"  No ;  after  all  that  has  been  between  us" —  and  she  spoke 
these  words  as  tremulously  and  sweetly  as  the  notes  of  a 
dying  harp — "  after  all  that  has  been  between  us,  I  will  not 
simply  say  to  you,  no.  I  confess  to  you  that  I  have  listened, 
not  with  an  unwilling  ear,  when  you  have  spoken  of  that  ex 
alted  love  upo.n  which  married  life  ought  to  rest,  and  I  believe, 
too,  I  have  felt  some  of  your  own  enthusiasm  when  you  have 
spoken  to  me  of  your  ideal  of  marriage.  And — must  I  say 
it — I  have  even  felt  proud  of  being  the  object  of  your  love. 
But  it  was  you,  too,  that  first  led  me  to  reflect  that  there  is 
something  else  essential  between  persons  who  are  to  spend 
their  lives  together — that  their  opinions  and  aims  in  life 
ought  to  be  similar." 

"And  are  not  our  opinions  and  aims  in  life  similar? 
Surely  you  have  long  known  that  I  intended  my  own  life  to 
be  an  active  one.  I  did  not  think  you  objected  to  that. 
Look  at  the  life  of  your  own  father  and  mother — surely  theirs 
has  been  a  happy  one.  And  besides,  when  I  have  spoken  to 
you  of  the  vast  amount  of  suffering  in  the  world ;  of  the 
great  need  that  Humanity  has  of  men,  of  men  able  to  see 
the  cause  of  justice,  and  to  work,  and  die  for  it,  if  neces 
sary  ;  of  my  earnest  ambition  to  be  even  an  humble  soldier 
in  such  heroic  ranks ;  I  think  you  have  listened  to  me,  not 
only  with  interest,  but  with  approval.  Once,  I  know,  when 
we  were  speaking  upon  the  subject,  and  some  one  present  said 
it  looked  very  much  like  a  dream",  you  said  '  if  it  be  a  dream, 
it  cannot  be  denied  that  it  is  a  very  grand  one ; '  and  I  loved 
you  for  those  words,  and  cherished  them  afterwards.  As  to 


GLENCOE.  337 

the  means  of  accomplishing  this  great  work  of  humanity,  I 
have  no  opinions  that  may  not  change ;  I  accept  the  best 
that  is  before  me ;  I  hope  I  may  be  willing  to  do  whatever 
work  is  appointed.  But  for  whatever  is  best  in  all  that  I 
have  hoped  to  do,  I  have  looked  to  you  as  the  inspirer. 
Whatever  honors  I  have  hoped  for,  I  wished  to  lay  them 
at  your  feet ;  and  my  greatest  happiness  I  wished  to  find  in 
your  approval.  How  then  are  we  not  identical  in  opin 
ions  and  purposes  ?  " 

"  You  have  not  mentioned  that  which  is  of  more  import 
ance  than  everything  else — religion." 

"  Religion  !  "  Mirabeau  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck. 
Then  he  looked  bewildered,  as  if  a  wall  had  suddenly  risen 
up  between  them.  All  this  time  had  he  been  completely, 
fatally  in  the  dark ;  and  all  this  time,  at  least  since  she  had 
heard  him  talk  that  afternoon  at  Mr.  Brooke's,  had  Marian 
been  fearing  that  it  might  be  just  as  it  was.  Mirabeau  had 
not  spoken  to  her  upon  this  subject,  first  because  he  re 
garded  the  subject  as  the  most  unfruitful  of  all  themes;  and 
secondly,  because  he  attached  no  importance  whatever  to  the 
particular  dogmas  one  might  happen  to  believe  in,  but  looked 
clear  through  all  such  fanciful  webs,  straight  to  the  heart, 
and  asked  only  if  the  heart  was  pure,  and  the  life  illustrated 
by  good  and  generous  deeds.  But  now  he  saw  how  different 
was  the  standpoint  from  which  Marian  had  viewed  the  sub 
ject,  and  he  was  alarmed.  On  any  other  occasion  than  this, 
and  to  any  person  less  religious  than  he  knew  Marian  to  be, 
he  would  probably  have  answered  dryly,  "  I  had  not  thought 
of  that."  But  such  an  answer,  of  course,  did  not  now  enter 
his  thoughts.  He  was  alarmed ;  but  still,  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  he  did  not  fully  appreciate  the  hopelessness  of  the 
situation.  Nor  indeed  had  Marian  herself  ever  fully  appre 
ciated  it.  She  had  continued  to  hope  that  there  might  be 
15 


338  (?A    IKA. 

some  possible  explanation,  which  she  herself  was  not  able  to 
imagine.  But  of  this  she  believed  herself  firmly  deter 
mined — that  she  could  not,  under  any  consideration,  marry 
an  atheist  or  infidel.  Having  been  taught  that  belief  in 
certain  dogmas — among  them  that  so  tersely  expressed  by 
Martin  Luther :  "  God  is  above  mathematics  " — was  neces 
sary  to  the  soul's  salvation,  it  cannot  be  wondered  at  that 
she  came  to  such  determination.  The  only  wonder  will  be 
if  she  holds  to  it.  As  soon  as  Mirabeau  could  speak,  he  said : 

"  I  do  not  think  that  in  religion  we  differ  in  any  essential 
particular.  As  for  religion  in  its  true  sense,  the  feelings 
of  love  and  reverence  with  which  the  human  mind  regards 
the  Deity,  I  know  we  do  not  differ.  We  serve,  I  know,  the 
same  God  ;  we  believe  alike  that  true  religion  does  not  con 
sist  in  any  outward  forms  and  ceremonies,  but  is  a  matter  of 
the  heart  itself ;  if  you  trust  in  God,  have  a  pure  heart,  and 
live  a  virtuous  life,  illustrated  by  good  deeds,  is  not  that 
sufficient  ?  " 

"  But  you  know  my  meaning — I  mean  the  orthodox  reli 
gion  of  the  church." 

"  I  might  say,  alas  !  there  are  so  many  churches,  and  so 
many  religions,  each  claiming  to  be  true  and  each  denounc 
ing  all  the  others,  that  one  of  so  little  learning  as  myself  can 
hardly  have  any  way  of  knowing  which  to  believe.  But  I 
know  your  meaning  ;  and  I  must  answer  you,  before  my  God 
and  my  own  conscience,  that  I  cannot  believe  that  religion 
to  be  the  true  one.  But  what  of  that  ?  God  knows  how 
earnestly  I  desire  to  know  the  truth  ;  and  he  knows  that  I 
do  believe  the  truth,  according  as  he  has  given  me  to  under 
stand  it.  Surely  he  will  not  hold  us  responsible  for  what  we 
honestly  and  earnestly  believe.  We  do  not  make  our  beliefs ; 
we  cannot  will  to  believe  that  two  and  two  make  five,  and 
believe  it.  But  how  shall  this  throw  a  single  shadow  across 


GLENCOE.  339 

our  life  ?  Our  life  shall  be  spent  in  doing  good ;  and  we 
shall  find  our  happiness  in  each  other.  You  have  said  that 
you  loved  me — delicious  word  !  Trust  me,  then,  with  your 
life,  as  I  will  trust  you  wholly  with  mine.  Ah,  then  !  Our 
life  shall  be  joyful ;  and  some  of  God's  creatures  shall  be 
made  happier  and  better  for  our  having  lived  in  the  world." 
His  voice  was  low  and  earnest ;  and  when  he  ceased  speak 
ing,  Marian  endeavored  to  rise,  saying :  "  Let  us  return  to  the 
house."  Mirabeau  observed  that  she  trembled,  and  quickly 
offered  her  his  arm,  saying : 

"  I  fear  we  have  stayed  too  long.  Is  the  air  too  cool  for 
you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  the  night  is  pleasant."  They  had  now  reached  the 
door ;  and  Mirabeau,  she  still  holding  to  his  arm,  stopped  to 
go.  And  then  he  said  to  her  : 

"  But  you  have  not  answered  me  yet ;  tell  me,  yes,  before 
I  go." 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  she  said,  half  entreatingly  ;  "  but — " 

"  I  may  hope  ?  " 

"  Not  that ;  but — come  again — to-morrow." 

What  was  Mirabeau  Holmes  to  do  ?  If  he  had  had  less 
refinement,  less  tenderness  of  feeling,  he  would  have  disre 
garded  her  half- pleading  tone,  and  stood  there  until  she  gave 
him  an  answer.  One  can  see  what  it  would  certainly  have 
been.  And  Mirabeau  knew  that  a  promise  from  Marian  Mai- 
comb,  given  under  the  pressure  of  her  present  feelings,  would 
be  of  infinite  importance  to  him.  But  when  she  said  earn 
estly,  no  less  by  her  actions  than  by  her  words,  "  Please  do 
not  urge  me,"  he  was  dumb.  He  only  said  "  Good-night," 
and  went  away.  And  there  was  another  reason,  too,  which 
he  had  often  thought  of  in  moments  of  calm  reflection,  and 
which  was  not  wholly  absent  from  his  mind  even  in  the  most 
fervid  moments  of  love :  he  did  not  want  an  answer  that 


34:0  gA  IRA. 

was  not  dictated  by  the  calmest  judgment  as  well  as  the 
deepest  feeling.  No  mental  reservations,  or  after-regrets. 
The  woman  he  married  must  be  wholly  his,  as  he  would 
be  wholly  hers.  He  believed  that  Marian  Malcomb  was  the 
woman. 


GLENCOE.  341 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"Aly  grief  lies  onward,  and  my  joy  behind." 

SHAKSPEAKE. — Sonnets. 

CLARENCE  HALL  had  been  at  his  new  home  some  weeks, 
and  his  wife  was  still  at  her  father's.  Several  times  had  he 
called  for  her  to  go  home  ;  and  each  time  some  excuse  had 
been  made.  Clarence  Hall  was  alarmed,  as  it  began  dimly 
to  occur  to  him  that  perhaps  they  were  debating  at  her  father's 
whether  she  should  come  at  all  or  not.  A  month  passed. 
Gloomy  forebodings  of  final  alienation  began  to  force  them 
selves  upon  his  mind.  Darker  than  ever  the  clouds  of  fate 
were  gathering  and  settling  around  Clarence  Hall.  And  this 
was  the  man,  who,  only  a  short  while  before,  on  his  wedding 
day,  in  the  flush  and  fancy  of  generous  ambition  and  youth 
ful  promise,  had  gazed  before  him  only  upon  pleasant  paths 
through  Elysian  fields,  leading  to  some  mystic  Arc  de  Tri- 
omphe  in  the  gauzy  light  beyond.  One  night  he  sat  alone 
before  the  fire  in  his  room  at  home.  He  had  been  thinking 
deeply  of  his  past  life,  of  the  present,  and  of  the  future.  But 
the  rebounding  mind  had  already  left  these  depths,  and  was 
now  far  up  in  the  thin  air  of  revery.  There  was  a  rap  at  the 
door.  He  started  instantly ;  so  quickly  that,  one  would 
think,  there  imist  have  been  some  connection  between  his 
dream  at  that  moment  and  the  rapping  at  the  door.  He  had 
risen  from  the  chair,  and  rested  one  knee  upon  it  for  a  second 
to  recall  his  consciousness,  when  his  eye  became  fixed  upon 
the  fire  in  the  grate.  The  fire  at  that  moment  exhibited 
that  phenomenon  which  one  frequently  sees  in  a  grate  when 


34:2  9A  IEA- 

the  fire  is  low,  almost  burnt  out :  a  kind  of  hard  crust  of 
charred  coal,  looking  firm  enough  on  top,  but  when  you  look 
below  you  see  that  it  has  no  support  whatever,  the  middle 
having  all  burnt  out,  leaving  only  a  ruin  here  and  there,  and 
a  few  live  coals  gleaming  from  a  bed  of  ashes  at  the  bottom  ; 
the  crust,  being  slightly  in  the  form  of  an  arch,  supports  it 
self,  while  from  the  under  side  hang  small  wisps  of  ash,  giv 
ing  it  a  comb-like  appearance  ;  you  touch  the  top  of  the  crust ; 
it  falls  to  the  bottom,  and  you  have  only  a  small  mass  of  dead 
ruins,  of  ashes  and  charred  coal. 

Clarence  Hall  almost  shuddered  as  he  thought  he  saw  in 
the  grate  something  like  his  own  life.  The  rapping  at  the 
door  was  repeated,  and  he  went  to  open  it.  It  was  one  of 
Mr.  Dealing's  servants.  "  Miss  Annie's  baby  sick,  sir,  and 
they  say  for  you  to  come  over  there."  Clarence  Hall  did 
not  stop  to  remember  that  he  had  long  ago  resolved  never  to 
go  to  Mr.  Bearing's  again,  and  that  he  had,  up  till  now,  kept 
his  resolution.  He  hastened  hither ;  and  as  he  walked 
swiftly,  silently  along,  he  thought  of  the  phantom  his  fancy 
had  conjured  up  in  the  grate.  When  he  got  to  Mr.  Dearing'l 
his  worst  fears  were  realized.  The  baby  had  had  a  cold  for 
several  days  past ;  on  the  previous  night  had  become  suddenly 
worse  ;  and  by  this  time  was  in  the  last  stage  of  pneumonia. 
All  this  day  had  the  child  been  dangerously  sick,  and  the 
father,  not  more  than  half  a  mile  away,  had  only  now  been 
notified  of  it,  and  was  come  just  in  time  to  see  it  die.  This 
was  Clarence  Hall's  only  child  ;  it  was  almost  his  only  stay 
in  life,  and  as  he  had  felt  others  slipping  away,  he  had  clung 
only  the  more  desperately  to  this.  It  was  not  intentional 
negligence,  nor  was  it  from  any  ill-feeling,  that  Clarence  Hall 
had  been  sent  for  only  at  the  last  moment ;  but  it  was  mainly 
because  no  one  understood  that  the  child  was  dangerously  ill. 
The  doctor  had  been  called  that  morning,  and  said  he  would 


GLENCOE.  343 

return  in  the  evening ;  and  it  was  only  when  he  came  in  the 
evening  that  they  learned  how  bad  the  little  Clara  (the  other 
they  named  Annie)  was.  The  nurse  had  been  accustomed  to 
take  the  little  girl  every  morning  to  her  father's  office  ;  she 
Lad  been  ordered  so  to  do  by  the  father  himself.  But  on 
this  morning  the  father  had  been  called  away  from  his  office 
on  business,  and  supposed  the  baby  had  been  to  his  office 
during  his  absence. 

Little  Clara  was  dead  and  buried ;  and  all  had  returned 
from  the  grave  to  Mr.  Dealing's. 

It  seems  that,  whatever  of  differences  there  had  been, 
whatever  grievances  they  had  felt  against  each  other,  now,  in 
their  common  affliction,  father  and  mother  would  draw  to 
gether  to  weep  over  their  dead  child,  and  to  sustain  and  com 
fort  each  other.  But  no ;  they  only  became  more  bitter 
against  each  other.  Words  ran  high  between  them.  They 
accused  each  other.  '  If  the  father  had  not  made  the  nurse 
bring  the  poor  baby  to  his  office  every  morning  it  would 
not  have  died ;  for  it  was  on  one  of  these,  a  damp  morning, 
that  it  had  first  taken  cold.'  '  If  the  mother  had  only  been  at 
home  doing  her  duty  there  would  not  have  been  any  need  of 
carrying  the  baby  to  his  office.'  '  As  if  he  had  provided  her 
any  decent  home  to  go  to  and  do  her  duty ;  as  if  he  had  not 
brought  her  down  to  poverty ' — angrily  put  in  Mrs.  Dearing. 
After  all  he  had  endured,  Clarence  Hall  thought  this  was 
too  much.  He  was  filled  with  indignation  and  bitterness. 
He  retorted  angrily  and  sharply.  They  talked  loud.  Fancy, 
dear  reader,  these  two,  their  child  just  buried,  standing  face 
to  face  and  bitterly  accusing  each  other.  Was  ever  there 
sadder  tragedy  ?  Have  human  eyes  witnessed  a  more  mourn 
ful  spectacle  ?  And  yet,  dear  reader,  this  thing  hath  actually 
been.  Eyes  have  seen  it.  Flesh  and  blood  have  endured  it. 

At  a  dead  hour  of  the  night  a  man  in  a  closely-buttoned 


344  (?A   IRA. 

overcoat  entered  the  cemetery,  and  stopped  at  a  fresh  little 
grave.  He  knelt  down  beside  it.  Maybe  he  uttered  a 
short  prayer.  Maybe  he  dropped  a  few  tears.  He  placed  a 
few  roses  upon  the  little  mound ;  and  some  upon  a  tiny 
tombstone  by  the  side  of  it.  Then  he  arose  and  walked 
straight  and  swiftly  away.  An  hour  later,  and  the  same 
figure,  already  several  miles  from  the  city,  was  hurrying 
along,  across  the  fields,  through  the  woods,  across  valleys, 
and  over  the  hills.  It  was  Clarence  Hall.  Escaping  from 
his  past  life.  Hurrying  from  fate.  But  fate  was  not  yet 
done  with  Clarence  Hall.  He  had  not  yet  fully  played  his 
part.  The  very  night  that  we  have  seen  him  hasting  away 
across  the  fields,  his  house,  probably  from  the  exploding  of  a 
lamp  which  he  had  left  burning,  caught  on  fire,  and  was  totally 
consumed.  All  was  horror  and  dismay  the  next  morn 
ing  at  Mr.  Dearing's,  when  it  was  known  what  had  hap 
pened.  Being  somewhat  accustomed  to  family  quarrels,  as 
aristocratic  families  always  are  more  or  less,  they  had 
not  attached  the  greatest  importance  to  those  between 
themselves  and  their  son-in-law.  As  for  such  a  denoue 
ment  as  this,  their  imagination  had  been  utterly  unable  to 
conceive  of  it.  Annie  was  wild  with  grief.  She  had  been 
led  on  to  where  she  now  was  mainly  by  the  influence  of  her 
father's  family.  She  was  not  unkind  at  heart.  Once,  as  we 
know,  she  had  loved  and  trusted  her  husband  with  all  the 
little  power  she  possessed.  And  if  let  alone,  while  certainly 
there  never  could  have  been  between  them  any  of  that  high 
and  real  companionship  which  Mirabeau  Holmes's  faith 
taught  him  to  hope  for  in  marriage;  nay,  while,  for  the  hus 
band  at  least,  it  would  certainly  have  been  joyless  enough ; 
•  if  let  alone,  it  would  have  been,  though  miserable,  at  least 
passable.  As  for  final  alienation,  separation,,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  present  horror,  she  had  never  thought  of  such  a  tiling. 


GLENCOE.  345 

And  as  it  is  a  law  of  the  human  mind,  of  the  lowest  as  well 
as  the  highest,  to  magnify  whatever  good  it  has  been  deprived 
of,  so  to  this  poor  stricken  woman,  so  suddenly  and  dreadfully 
awakened  to  a  consciousness  of  her  position,  her  lost  husband 
was  ten  times  dearer  to  her  now  than  she  had  ever  known  before. 
And  in  the  wildness  of  her  despair  she  exhibited  a  depth  of 
grief,  an  energy  of  passion,  which  one  would  scarcely  have 
thought  it  possible  for  her  to  possess.  She  accused  her  father 
and  mother  of  everything  ;  of  the  death  of  her  child  ;  of  the 
alienation  between  her  husband  and  herself ;  of  the  murder  of 
her  husband.  For  all  believed  that  Clarence  Hall,  frenzied  to 
insanity,  had  set  his  own  house  on  fire  and  made  away  with 
himself.  Thus  it  was  that  fate  seemed  to  mock  and  glare 
upon  Clarence  Hall  even  as  he  was  hurrying  away  over  the 
mountains. 

Meanwhile  the  world  moved  on.  As  also,  at  some  pace, 
did  that  small  portion  of  it  known  far  and  near,  but  mostly 
near,  as  the  Empire  State.  But  as  to  how  far,  since  it  is  well 
enough  to  be  exact  in  important  matters,  that  portion  of  the 
footstool  is  known  as  the  Empire  State,  why,  seeing 
that  the  Government  has  not  thought  proper  to  spend 
a  shilling  even  upon  the  Coast  Survey  within  its  limits, 
one  must  guess  at  it.  Take  a  huge  compass,  then,  and 
plant  one  foot  of  it  somewhere  about  the  centre,  say 
Milledgeville,  which  city,  I  think,  is  probably  the  most 
eligible  point  for  a  hole  in  the  ground,  and  describe  a  circle 
with  a  radius  of  one  hundred  miles;  and  far  and  near 
within  this  circle — except  among  the  forty-two  thousand 
white  adults  who  cannot  read  or  write,  twenty-eight  thou 
sand  of  them  being  women,  who,  according  to  the  statute, 
are  the  mothers  of  somebody's  children — this  domain  is  known 
as  the  Empire  State.  Of  course,  in  this  measurement 

110    mention    is   made    of   jutts    and    corners;    the    State, 
15* 


34:6  gA  IRA. 

being  Democratic,  cannot  be  reduced  to  rules  and  regu 
lations.  But  the  world  ,  moved  along ;  and  so  did  the 
Empire  State.  Truly,  Jefferson  Davis  was  not  in  the 
dark  when  he  spoke  of  the  "  divine  energy  of  our  people." 
Even  here  in  this  State,  while  we  have  been  following  the 
histories  of  several  of  the  people,  one  might  see  some 
evidences  of  the  truth  of  the  Confederate  President's  re 
mark.  What  principally  has  been  done  during  this  period 
may  be  briefly  expressed  by  saying  that  the  wealth  of  the 
State  has  almost  doubled. 

But  still  there  was  no  State  system  of  public  schools,  the 
people  still  jogging  along  in  the  old  belief:  "  Teach  your 
bootblack  Greek,  and  he  at  once  becomes  a  rascal,  or  is 
called  to  preach  ; "  the  only  modification  in  said  belief  being 
this,  that  many  people  had  learned  that  said  bootblack  was 
likely  enough  to  fulfil  both  conditions.  Nor  had  the  "  State 
University,"  notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  of  our  friends, 
yet  been  open  to  the  female  sex ;  the  people  still  going  011  in 
the  belief  that  the  highest  style  of  education  for  women 
ought  to  consist  in  knowing  how  to  thrum  a  few  tunes  on 
the  piano,  to  tie  their  garters  above  their  knees — in  order 
that  their  legs  might  remain  soft  and  smooth,  for  hard  and 
knotty  female  legs  are  held  to  be  out  of  all  taste  in  the 
Empire  State — and  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to  be 
protected  at  a  moment's  notice.  In  the  "  best  society  "  the 
above  three  were,  and  to  the  best  of  my  skill  and  knowledge 
still  are,  considered  the  three  golden  rules  of  a  young  lady's 
education.  People  of  enlarged  views,  and  a  kind  of  practical 
turn  of  mind,  added  two  others,  namely :  how  to  make 
knicknacks  and  baby-clothes,  and  how  to  preside  with  dig 
nity  at  the  husband's  dinner-taWe ;  while  among  a  very 
large  portion,  that  is,  among  the  decidedly  vulgar,  including 
the  fourteen  thousand  white  men  who  were,  and  still  are, 


GLENCOE.  347 

unable  to  read  or  write,  and  the  twenty-eiglit  thousand  white 
women  who  were,  and  still  are,  unable  to  read  or  write, 
there  prevailed  a  strong  notion  that  a  regular,  thorough 
going,  business  woman  ought  to  be  able  to  stand  in  the 
kitchen-door  and  with  the  utmost  facility  kick  a  dog  a  hun 
dred  yards.  Still,  our  friends  were  not  the  only  ones  who 
believed  that  the  education  of  women  was  of  quite  as  much, 
importance  as  that  of  men,  and  who  thought  that  the  "  State 
University  "  ought  to  be  opened  to  all  alike.  The  time  had 
not  yet  come ;  and  if  any  of  them  had  daughters  whom  they 
wished  to  educate  thoroughly,  why,  the  only  chance  was  to 
put  them  into  breeches  and  bring  them  up  in  the  way  they 
should  go.  Mr.  Malcomb  succeeded  in  his  public  school 
plan  in  the  city. 

As  for  the  politics  of  the  country,  Mr.  Malcomb  had  seen 
with  peculiar  satisfaction  the  Conservative  party  "  accept 
the  situation,"  just  as  he  had  advised  several  years  before 
and  for  which  advice,  as  we  have  seen,  even  an  effort  was 
made  to  outlaw  him.  And  though  his  opponents  had  now 
been  in  power  some  time,  the  Constitution,  which  owed  its 
existence  mainly  to  him,  still  remained  unaltered.  Not  even 
jealousy,  envy,  could  find  anything  in  it  that  the  people 
would  suffer  to  be  changed. 

Acute,  far-seeing,  and  ever  solicitous  for  the  development 
and  prosperity  of  his  State  and  section,  Mr.  Malcomb  was 
now  engaged  in  a  work  which  promised  to  be  of  the  largest 
consequence  :  he  was  trying  to  get  his  State  to  offer  siich 
terms  to  the  discontented  "  workingmen  "  of  the  Northern 
cities  as  would  enable  and  induce  them  to  leave  their  crowded 
and  starving  homes  and  come  South.  Said  he  to  Mirabean 
one  day,  speaking  upon  this  subject :  "  You  say  you  have  iu 
New  York  alone  a  hundred  thousand  men,  idle  and  homeless, 
but  both  able  and  willing  to  work.  Now,  to  say  nothing  of 


3-18  gA  IRA. 

the  coal-fields,  the  quarries,  and  the  ore-beds,  which  might 
be  utilized  to  the  immense  wealth  of  the  State,  we  have 
millions  of  acres  of  land  rich  and  productive,  but,  like  the 
workingmen,  in  unwilling  idleness.  Let  the  State  invite 
these  workingmen  to  come,  with  their  families,  and  settle 
among  us.  Let  the  State  furnish  transportation,  and  to  each 
head  of  a  family,  say,  fifty  acres  of  land  with  stock  to  culti 
vate  it,  seeds,  tools,  lumber,  and  supplies  for  one  year — the 
money  advanced  by  the  State  to  be  a  first  mortgage  upon  the 
improved  lands  and  all  other  property  the  settler  may  acquire, 
payable  at  a  low  rate  of  interest,  say,  in  ten  years." 

"  It  is  easy  to  perceive,"  said  Mirabeau,  "  that  several 
things  would  follow  if  your  plan  was  adopted  and  carried 
out.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  able  to  vouch  for  many  thou 
sands  of  the  workingmen's  accepting  so  wise  and  liberal  an 
offer.  As  to  the  good  that  would  accrue  to  the  State,  the 
impetus  that  it  would  give  to  her  progress  in  wealth,  popula 
tion,  and  power,  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  almost  incalcula 
ble.  As  to  the  workingmen  themselves,  there  is  no  disguis 
ing  the  fact  that  it  would  be  simply  a  clear  loss  of  so  much 
power  to  the  Proletariate ;  for  when  they  came  here,  upon 
such  terms,  they  would  themselves  all  become  property- 
holders  and  many  of  them  capitalists." 

"  And  you  make  that  an  objection  to  the  scheme  ?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot  say  that.  But  while  this  measure  would 
put  it  off  for  a  while,  the  battle  between  Labor  and  Capital 
will  come  at  last — and  the  JProletaires  will  have  need  of  all 
their  strength" 

It  was  on  a  Tuesday  afternoon,  the  day  on  which  the 
Supreme  Court  delivers  its  decisions,  that  Mirabeau  and 
Fred,  having  just  left  the  coiirt-feom,  were  walking  down 
the  street,  and  Fred  asked :  "  What  do  you  think  of  that 
decision?"  It  was  the  case  of  Mr.  Brooke;  the  jury  had 


GLENCOE.  3-19 

found  him  guilty ;  he  had  been  sentenced  to  twenty  years' 
imprisonment  in  the  Penitentiary;  and  the  case  had  been 
carried  to  this  court. 

"  I  know  it  is  an  outrage  upon  decency  and  common 
sense,  and  I  hope  it  is  upon  law ;  but  I  don't  know  about 
that.  You  were  right,  Fred,  I  would  rather  roll  a  wheel 
barrow  than  be  a  lawyer." 

"  What  were  the  points  ?  " 

"  That  a  woman  who  has  been  seen  in  the  arms  of  a  man 
is  not  a  virtuous  female,  in  the  eye  of  the  law  [the  reader 
remembers  how  Emma  was  forcibly  taken  into  his  arms  by 
Alf  Walton]  ;  and  that  a  woman  cannot  be  seduced  by  a 
married  man.  Of  course,  the  meaning  of  the  whole  decision 
is,  that  a  minister  of  the  gospel  can't  be  guilty  of  the 
crime  of  seduction." 

"That  may  be  so  in  law;  but  I  don't  know  of  but  one 
way  of  making  it  so  in  fact." 

"  See  how  the  court  was  divided — the  only  one  of  the 
three  who  is  not  subject  to  the  power  of  the  church,  dis 
sented  from  this  decision." 

"  I  reckon  they  don't  doubt  that  the  preacher  can  commit 
the  act.  But  then  it  is  no  crime  ;  I  suppose  they  think  that 
the  preacher  pronounces  some  kind  of  a  benediction,  or  may 
even  work  a  Scotch  miracle  on  a  small  scale,  which  changes 
the  iiatui-e  of  the  thing." 

"  Have  you  no  reverence  at  all  ?  " 

"  No.  Buckle  says  that  the  origin  of  reverence  or 
veneration  is  wonder  and  fear.  We  wonder  because  we  are 
ignorant,  and  fear  because  we  are  weak.  Veneration  carried 
into  religion  causes  superstition  ;  into  politics,  despotism." 

"  Without  going  into  that  question,  it  rather  seems  to  me 
that  conscientious  religious  belief  ought  to  impart  something 
of  sacredness  to  anything." 


350  £A    IRA. 

"  Precisely  !  That  seems  to  have  been  the  notion  of  the 
Supreme  Court  in  this  case." 

We  have  seen  that  Mrs.  Walton,  on  her  death-bed,  under 
the  vague  impression  that,  possibly,  somewhere  in  the  world, 
her  daughter,  or  her  daughter's  child,  might  be  still  living, 
exacted  from  her  husband  a  promise  that  he  would  arrange  his 
property  so  that  if  they,  or  either^  of  them,  should  ever  be 
found,  it  might  come  into  their  possession.  Mr.  Walton  was 
faitiiful  to  his  promise.  He  executed  it  before  he  started  on 
his  sad  journey  to  the  Old  World.  And  it  was  well  that  he 
did ;  for  the  old  man  was  not  destined  ever  to  reach  the 
shores  of  Europe.  He  died  on  the  passage,  leaving  a  letter 
to  his  correspondent  in  London,  and  another  to  his  friends 
in  America,  containing  his  last  directions.  Thus  died  Mr. 
Walton,  and  found  his  last  resting-place  in  the  silent  depths 
of  the  ocean.  He  had  started  to  the  Old  World  in  the  sad 
hope  of  bringing  home  the  remains  of  his  two  sons,  to  be  de 
posited  in  their  native  soil,  beside  the  dust  of  their  mother. 
He  hoped  too  to  bring  hither  the  remains  of  his  other  son, 
buried  on  the  banks  of  the  great  Mississippi.  And  soon  he 
thought  to  mingle  his  own  dust  with  theirs.  As  for  his  other 
child,  he  knew  not  where  she  was  ;  but  he  prayed  that  God 
would  forgive  them  both,  and  bring  them  together  hereafter 
where  the  sufferings  of  earth  are  not  remembered.  Thus  the 
old  man  hoped.  But  he  slept  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean ; 
his  wife  in  the  soil  of  Georgia ;  one  son  in  the  far  West ; 
another  in  France  ;  the  last  in  Britain.  And  Viola,  too,  was 
resting  quietly  in  the  arms  of  her  Italian  lover.  God  will  not 
condemn  her  utteiiv.  For  behold  !  She  too  was  a  woman  ! 


GLENCOE.  351 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Treading  ttie  path  to  nobler  ends, 
A  long  farewell  to  love  I  gave." 

WALLEB. 

"  COME,"  said  Fred  to  Olive  Sutherland  one  night,  "  come, 
sing  me  a  song ;  I  am  miserable  to-night." 

"  Why  are  you  miserable  ?  " 

"  Because  there  are  forty-two  days  in  six  weeks." 

"  Do  you  wish  there  were  fewer  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  wish  there  were  forty- two  weeks  in  six  days." 

"  You  think  we  shall  get  tired  of  each  other,  and  you  want 
the  time  to  go  at  a  rapid  rate." 

"  Oh,  I  only  meant  for  this  to  last  till  then.  You  know  a 
good  rule  must  work  both  ways.  After  six  weeks  I  want 
this  one  to  work  the  other  way." 

"  A  poor  rule  then  you  wish  for,  by  your  own  showing ; 
for  it  will  surely  not  work  both  ways,  or  even  one  way." 

"  There's  for  your  wit  " — kissing  her  hand. 

"  Will  that  do  both  ways  ?  " 

"  No  ;  only  one  way — this  way  " — another  kiss. 

"  What  a  sweet  tune  that  little  hand  ought  to  play  after 
two  kisses  !  " 

"  And  what  a  sweet  song  this  pretty  mouth  ought  to  sing  ! " 
and  before  she  could  turn  her  head,  he  kissed  her  twice  on 
the  lips.  Fred  said  afterwards,  "  they  were  good  enough  to 
have  sent  a  whole  Puritan  congregation  to  the  State-prison 
for  the  full  term  of  its  natural  life." 

"  What  shall  I  sing  you  ?  " 

"  Here  is  something  your  mother  has  just  given  me — 
*  Wicked  Sixteen  ' — sing  that." 


352  gA  IRA. 

"  What,  do  you  want  to  hear  me  say — '  But  alack  I  must 
own,  my  heart  it  is  stone,  For  to  love  him  is  out  of  the  ques 
tion  ? '  " 

"  Yes»;  and  I  will  compare  it  with  the  truth  ;  and  amuse 
myself  by  reflecting  what  a  fib  you  are  telling." 

"  You  had  better  watch  !  You  don't  know  but  that  at 
this  very  minute  '  even  the  thought  makes  me  smile.  For 
I  frankly  declare,  I  can  never  forbear,  with  a  chance,  a  de 
lightful  flirtation.' " 

But  Fred  knew  well  enough  that  here  was  no  "  delightful 
flirtation."  For  this  girl's  heart  was  as  deep  as  her  own 
brown  eyes,  and  true  as  a  star.  Their  love  was  all  sunshine 
and  roses.  But  that  does  not  indicate  that  it  was  not  both 
full  and  strong ;  rather  the  contrary.  Is  not  sunlight  the 
greatest  power  in  nature  ?  And  what  is  more  smooth  and 
silent  ?  The  roused  lightning  is  terrible  in  its  might ;  but 
with  the  calm,  serene  power  of  the  sunlight,  it  reminds  one 
of  a  fallen  archangel  compared  with  the  Omnipotent.  The 
love  of  Fred  Van  Comer  and  Olive  Sutherland  was  not  dis 
turbed  by  storms  ;  it  was  smooth  and  genial,  but  deep  and 
true.  And  the  reason  of  it  was  this,  that  they  had  not  made 
a  mistake,  there  was  between  their  deepest  natures  perfect 
accord.  As  for  Fred,  beneath  an  apparent  lightness  of  dis 
position  he  carried  a  heart  as  true  as  truth.  It  would  have 
been  far  from  an  easy  task  to  find  a  clearer,  better  balanced, 
or  better  stored  head  than  Fred  Van  Comer  carried  upon  his 
shoulders.  And  when  Olive  Sutherland  looked  into  his  soul, 
she  saw,  instinctively,  both  deeper  and  clearer  than  many 
who  have  "studied  human  nature"  would  have  seen. 

She  took  her  seat  at  the  piano.  She  touched  the  keys. 
"  La  la  la,  La  la  la,"  she  saucily  said  as  she  lifted  her  head — 
and  here  dear,  reader,  wishing  them  all  manner  of  happiness, 
we  must  bid  them  an  affectionate  adieu. 


GLENCOE.  353 

Bramlette,  with  much  genius,  not  inconsiderable  learning,  a 
generous  ambition,  a  good  heart,  a  large  jaw,  and  pants  a  foot 
too  short,  never  learned  the  knack  of  getting  on  in  the  world. 
Somehow,  things  would  go  wrong  with  him.  It  was  always 
a  hard  matter  for  him  to  make  enough  money  even  to  pay 
his  board.  Still  he  was  never  heard  to  murmur.  And  if  oc 
casionally,  say  on  a  birth-day,  or  anniversary  of  some  event 
in  his  life,  he  could  not  but  reflect  with  some  sadness  how 
rapidly  he  was  leaving  youth  behind  him,  and  how  little  he 
had  yet  accomplished  in  life,  he  accepted  it  all  very  quietly ; 
wrote  what  he  had  to  write,  and  went  to  the  Library  to 
read.  He  lived  on  this  way  some  time  after  the  New  Month 
ly  suspended  publication,  having  no  regular  work.  Finally 
he  left  the  city ;  went  to  teach  a  school  in  a  village  in  a  dif 
ferent  section  of  the  State  ;  married  the  daughter  of  a  clergy 
man,  and  soon  went  to  preaching  himself.  And  it  came  to 
pass  when  the  nine  months  had  expired — of  course  the  reader 
knows,  from  personal  experience  for  aught  I  can  tell,  what 
came  to  pass  when  that  notable  period  of  time  had  duly  ex 
pired.  But  Bramlette  never  was  eminently  successful  at  any 
thing  ;  and  so  when  his  first  baby,  according  to  the  statute, 
was  born,  it  only  weighed  three  pounds  and  a  half,  clothes- 
basket  and  all.  But  if  he  does  not  grow  to  weigh  twenty 
stone  in  so  many  years  there  in  no  virtue  in  Methodist 
chicken.  But  what  was  chiefly  remarkable,  for  this  latitude 
and  time  of  year,  was  this  :  that  Bramlette  was  married  on  the 
night  of  the  second  of  November,  about  eleven  o'clock — the 
hour  for  retiring  on  such  occasions,  in  these  parts  being  twelve 
o'clock — and  this  diminutive  individual  entered  upon  his 
duties  as  a  baby  and  citizen  of  this  Republic  on  the  nigl  t  of 
the  second  of  August  following,  at  a  comfortable  number  of 
minutes  past  twelve.  Some  people  remarked  upon  Oriental 
customs.  Some  were  reminded  of  Arabian  Nights  entertain- 


354  QA   IRA. 

merits — "  it  came  to  pass,  etc."  Bramlette  was  a  very  virtu 
ous  man.  It  has  been  observed,  I  think,  that  people  who 
live  in  wine  countiies  do  not  make  drunkards. 

Happening  to  travel  through  that  portion  of  the  country 
some  time  since,  and  hearing  of  a  camp-meeting  not  far  off, 
and  feeling  much  in  need  of  spiritual  comfort,  I  went  to  it. 
I  met  Bramlette  there.  He  preached  a  good  sermon ;  and 
said  he  meant  to  put  breeches  on  that  boy  before  he  was  two 
yesps  old.  Bramlette  always  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  dig 
nity  of  the  human  species.  I  reminded  him  of  what  I  had 
heard  him  say  many  years  before,  when  we  were  in  school 
together,  about  the  birth  of  his  first  baby.  It  was  a  queer 
notion  of  Bramlette's.  He  said  he  wanted  his  first  baby, 
which  must  be  a  boy,  of  course,  to  be  born  in  a  splendid  barge 
upon  the  Bay  of  Naples  ;  on  a  calm  night  in  October,  under 
a  full  moon  in  a  dark  sky,  music  in  the  distance,  and  Mount 
Vesuvius  in  action  !  Born  in  the  midst  of  such  a  scene  of 
beauty  and  sublimity,  poetry  and  action,  how  should  the  boy 
fail  to  be  great  ?  Manifestly,  the  theory  of  Goethe  and  the 
practice  of  Napoleon  would  here  come  together.  Disap 
pointed  this  time,  Bramlette  must  still  look  to  the  future. 
His  next  child  would,  in  all  probability,  be  only  a  girl — a 
clear  loss  here.  He  rmist  look  to  the  next.  Peace  be  with 
Bramlette,  his  wife,  and  his  babies,  omnis  et  singulis,  exe 
cuted  and  executory,  of  which  his  wife  is,  or  may  be,  the 
mother,  according  to  the  statute. 

Emma  Harlan  died,  and  her  mother  died  also.  It  was  on  a 
morning  in  November  that  this  notice  appeared  in  the  daily 
papers :  "  The  friends  of  Mrs.  Harlan  and  her  daughter 
Emma  are  invited  to  attend  their  funeral  at  Trinity  Church, 
at  eleven  o'clock  to-day."  And  to  this  notice  was  the  signa 
ture  of  General  Clement.  At  the  appointed  time  a  few 
noble  friends,  of  the  type  I  have  mentioned ;  friends  of  all 


GLENCOE.  355 

of  God's  creatures,  friends  who  had  learned  to  feel  another's 
woe,  and  to  shed  the  tear  of  sympathy  over  every  misfortune 
and  every  sorrow — gathered  at  the  little  cottage  on  Ivy 
street,  now  desolate  in  death,  and  the  sad  procession  moved 
slowly  down  Marietta  and  up  Whitehall  street,  in  direc 
tion  of  Trinity  Church.  The  church  was  full.  The  dark, 
rich  curtains  were  closely  drawn.  And  all  was  silent  and 
solemn.  As  the  pall-bearers  entered,  the  choir  sang  one  of 
the  songs  of  Schubert.  And  when  the  faint,  weeping  notes 
had  died  away,  General  Clement,  who  had  been  kneeling  the 
while,  rose  and  read  that  grand  old  hymn  of  Dr.  Muhlenberg, 
"  I  would  not  live  alway."  No  ! 

The  few  lurid  mornings  that  dawn  on  us  here 

Are  enough,  for  life's  woes,  full  enough  for  its  cheer. 

Only  those  who  knew  of  the  relations  which  existed  between 
this  good  man  and  Mrs.  Harlan's  family  could  feel  the  ful 
ness  of  this  scene.  Years  ago,  the  four  brave  brothers  had 
followed  him  to  battle  upon  tha  hills  and  plains  of  Virginia. 
One  by  one  he  had  seen  them  all  go  down  in  the  fight ;  and  he 
had  borne  the  dying  message  of  the  youngest  and  last  to  his 
stricken  mother.  Faithful  to  his  promise  to  the  dying  young 
soldier,  he  had  never  faltered  in  his  care  and  sympathy  for  the 
mother  and  sister.  In  their  last  sad  days  he  was  frequently 
with  them,  consoling,  comforting,  and  cheering  them,  and 
helping  them  to  bear  their  great  weight  of  misfortune  and 
sorrow.  And  now  he  was  to  perform  for  them  the  last 
service  of  the  dead,  and  follow  them  to  the  grave. 

Mr.  Walton  named  Mr.  Malcomb  as  executor  of  his  will, 
and  confided  to  him,  as  trustee,  his  large  estate.  It  was  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  very  day  that  we  have  seen  Mirabeau 
Holmes  and  Marian  Malcomb  last  together,  that  Mirabeau 
received  from  Mr.  Malcomb  the  note  written  by  Alberto  and 


356  gA  IRA. 

Viola  Simona  just  before  their  death,  and  which  they  had 
entrusted  to  the  tall  American,  to  be  delivered  to  himself  or 
to  Mr.  Walton.  The  note  had  been  given  to  Alf  Walton  in 
New  York  for  his  father,  and  he  had  carried  it  with  him  to 
Europe.  According  to  Mr.  Walton's  directions,  all  the 
papers  found  upon  his  son's  person  were  forwarded  by  his 
London  correspondent  to  Mr.  Malcomb.  This  note  was 
found  among  them,  and  was  immediately  handed  to  Mirabeau 
Holmes. 

When  Mirabeau  last  parted  with  Marian,  as  we  have  seen, 
she  told  him,  at  the  last  moment,  "  to  come  back — to-morrow." 
To-morrow  came.  Neither  of  them  had  slept  much  that  night. 
They  had  both  been  busy  thinking  of  what  had  just  trans 
pired  between  them,  and  of  their  future  lives.  Mirabeau 
was  not  without  hope ;  but  still  he  looked  forward  to  the 
coming  interview  as  a  man  looks  to  a  trial  for  his  life  when 
he  knows  the  chances  are  against  him.  He  believed  now 
that  all  the  glow  and  coloring  of  the  grand  mission  of  his 
future  life  had  been  imparted  by  the  hope  he  had  believed  in 
and  cherished  of  sharing  that  future  with  Marian  Malcomb. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  tried  to  contemplate  that 
future  without  the  glow  and  without  the  color.  But  alas  ! 
he  found  that  not  only  the  glow,  not  only  the  color,  but  also 
the  very  substance  of  the  fabric,  was  largely  made  up  of  these 
very  hopes.  And  at  this  moment,  he  thought  that  without 
her  he  could  see  no  future  whatever.  But  there  was  one 
thing  that  Mirabeau  Holmes  did  not  say  even  to  himself;  he 
did  not  say  that,  for  her,  he  would  renounce  his  faith  in 
himself  and  his  loyalty  to  God  and  Humanity.  Then  he  tried 
to  philosophize.  He  reproached  himself :  Is  your  happiness 
then  of  so  much  value  ?  What  does  Humanity  care  for  your 
happiness?  What  does  Humanity  expect?  Every  man, 
happy  or  unhappy,  to  do  the  work  appointed  him  to  do. 


GLENCOE.  357 

As  for  what  Marian  had  thought,  and  what  conclusion  she 
had  reached,  we  may  judge  from  the  following  note,  which 
she  wrote  and  sent  to  Mirabeau  next  morning  : 

"  ME.  HOLMES  :  You  will  think  me  weak  and  uncertain,  I 
know.  That  this  will  make  you  think  me  unworthy  of  you, 
I  am  almost  glad,  but  still  I  am  sorry,  and  reproach  myself,  to 
forfeit  your  good  opinion.  You  know  how  much  I  prize  it. 
You  know  the  circumstances  under  which  I  told  you  last 
night  to  come  back  to  see  me  to-day.  It  is  different  this 
morning,  and  now  I  ask  you,  for  the  sake  of  all  that  has  been 
between  us,  not  to  come.  I  cannot  say  more,  save  to  ask 
that  I  may  still  be  your  friend.  MARIAN  MALCOMB." 

To  which  Mirabeau  returned  the  following  answer  : 

"  Miss  MARIAN  :  As  to  what  I  may  think  of  anything  you 
have  done,  let  me  only  say,  what  you  know  well  to  be  true, 
that  since  that  October  day  at  the  river,  long  ago,  I  have 
loved  you  with  full  devotion;  and,  whatever  may  be  the 
future,  I  shall  love  you  so  while  I  live.  I  shall  come  at 
twelve  ;  and  by  the  right  of  the  love  with  which  I  have  long 
loved,  and  still  love  you,  I  ask  you  to  see  me.  Remember ! 
remember  !  Our  better  destinies  sometimes  come  within  our 
reach  in  this  life,  and,  in  our  ignorance,  we  strike  them 
down  ;  we  know  the  truth  when  they  lie  dead  before  us.  I 
declare  to  you  that  this  is  what  you  are  now  about  to  do. 

"  MIRABEAU  HOLMES." 

At  the  appointed  hour  Mirabeau  went  to  Mr.  Malcomb's. 
Marian  met  him  in  the  parlor.  She  was  calm  now,  and  fully 
determined.  They  had  been  talking  for  some  minutes  ;  and 
now  both  had  risen  and  stood  facing  each  other,  he  looking 


358  £A   IKA. 

intently  into  her  face,  she  looking  down,  and  toying  with  a 
shell  on  the  table. 

"  Will  you  not  change  that  decision  ?  " 

"  I  cannot." 

"  And  this  is  forever  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

He  bowed  his  head,  pressed  her  hand  silently,  and  went 
away.  Thus  he  gave  to  love  a  long  farewell.  Another  crisis 
in  the  life  of  this  man  had  passed.  And  this  too  was  neces 
sary  to  give  him  higher  and  broader  views  of  life  and  its 
duties.  He  was  still  young.  He  was  rising  to  meet  his 
destiny.  We  shall  see  him  again.  The  next  day  he  started 
to  look  for  the  child,  the  Italian  patriot  and  his  American 
bride. 


CALIFORNIA  LIBf 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS3089  .T52c 


L  009  609  317  4 


PS 
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UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA   001  221  131    4 


